


Redemption

by Tinhatflash53



Series: The Revelation Series [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, And for some unknown reason the states were there, Confederate America portrayed in a good light - don't like don't read, Drug Abuse, Dysfunctional Family, Everyone Has Issues, Historical Figures, Historical References, Human & Country Names Used (Hetalia), I mean EVERYONE - Freeform, PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Spain is such a mood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2020-03-09 03:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 66
Words: 99,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18909082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinhatflash53/pseuds/Tinhatflash53
Summary: The world is suffering, but don't worry, the Ancients have a plan. In order to be able to come down to Earth for good, Rome decides to kill twenty two birds with one stone and gather the nations in one room for an honest, down-to-earth confessional! The only problem is, it hinges on the most hated country in all of history: The Confederate States of America.I'm bad at summaries, this will make more sense if you just read it...





	1. Reintroduction

The world meeting was going just like normal, which is to say, nothing was happening at all. However, there was one noticeable difference: America was absent. Ludwig kept scanning to crowd for the obnoxious blonde man, but he still came up with nothing. “Alright, does anyone know where America is?” he called into the room. Arthur frowned and shook his head, several nations following suit. It wasn’t unlike America to be late, but he was always present by the time roll call came around. Then, a gasp of surprise came from the corner of the room, and everyone’s gaze snapped to Matthew Williams, the personification of Canada. “Today’s April 9,” the Canadian said, and Mexico and Brazil nodded in understanding.

Arthur furrowed his brow, “What’s so special about April 9?”

Canada stared at him, “Anniversary of the end of the Civil War.” The nations bristled in apprehension and surprise, the African nations in particular looked varying degrees of uneasy and angry. After a heavy silence, Ludwig called for the meeting to continue, without a reasonably excused America.

After the meeting, Arthur pulled Francis, Antonio, Ludwig, Gilbert, Kiku, and Matthew aside. “I know this is a painful day for America,” he started, “But he’s shown up to meetings on painful days before. Hell, I even got him to come on 9/11 once. But staying away the entire day, without even a call, this is unlike him.” The other nations nodded in agreement, all except Matthew, who was trying very hard to leave unnoticed. Normally, this would have been easy for the soft-spoken Canadian, but now Arthur was focused on him. “Matthew, where is your brother?” Arthur asked sharply, and Matthew gave a resigned sigh.

“He’s probably at the graveyard,” Matthew said, and he started walking away, motioning for them to follow. After a brief drive, they came to the somber gates of Arlington National Cemetery. As they started up the path, it struck Arthur that he had never been to Arlington before. It wasn’t one of the sights Alfred insisted on showing him whenever he came to visit. He’d known of the cemetery’s existence, of course, but he’d never actually seen it. When they reached the top of the hill, Arthur’s breath caught. For miles, a rolling expanse of bare hillside was filled with starch white headstones. Thousands upon thousands of the things, all marking the remains and sacrifices of American soldiers. At the top of the hill, a massive American flag stood at half-mast, overlooking the solemn hillside, and gleaming in the setting sun. It didn’t feel right, having Alfred’s flag at half-mast; Arthur knew it was a show of respect for the dead, but Alfred was normally so jovial, it was hard to remember that he had negative emotions as well. Arthur also knew that some of the graves were from the Revolution and the War of 1812. Guiltily, he wondered how many men he had sent to the gates of Arlington.

As Matthew lead them down the hill, the mood was incredibly cowed. Even the normally rambunctious Gilbert was withdrawn, and even looked a little guilty as they passed graves from the World Wars. As they got into some of the older burial sites, Antonio blanched as they passed a mass grave for the crew of the USS Maine, the destruction of which had started the Spanish-American War. Ludwig put a hand on Antonio’s shoulder sympathetically, an unusual display of affection from the uptight German. Then Arthur remembered all the graves that read World War I and World War II. Ludwig probably felt responsible for a good 60% of Arlington’s occupants. As they continued walking, Francis sighed sadly as they passed a monument for Marquis de Lafayette, the Frenchman that had been a prominent general in the American Revolution. Kiku inclined his head in recognition at a monument to the Battle of Iwo Jima. Finally, they came to the Civil War section of Arlington, and started hearing sobbing.

They were greeted by a familiar and unsettling sight. A black-haired man with a scruffy goatee in a grey military uniform, a grey cotton cap pulled tight over his head, and bearing on it a tarnished copper insignia of the now defunct Confederate States of America. Now, though, the former CSA had his left sleeve pinned up against his shoulder, no arm present at all. The cost of the Civil War. Beside him, Alfred had his head in his hands, crying his eyes out.

It was shocking, honestly, seeing Alfred sobbing and crying like a child, with the personification of his greatest enemy standing next to him as a silent sentry. “Alfred?” Arthur asked in disbelief, and both men swung around to face the new arrivals. Alfred frantically tried to compose himself, wiping at his eyes while the Confederacy deftly handed him a previously unseen handkerchief. The Southerner looked somewhere between sad, guilty, alarmed, and angry.

After a short while, Alfred managed to get a hold of himself. “E-England, Germany, Japan, France, Spain, Prussia, Canada. H-hey, how’s it goin?”

“America,” Ludwig said, reverting back to a straightlaced stance, “We were worried about you. You did not show up to the meeting.”

Alfred swore, “Damn, was that today? I’m sorry, guys, I’m a little distracted this time of year.”

Finally, England overcame his surprise, “America, who is this?”

The Confederacy looked hurt, “Truly, sir?” he asked, his voice the same stereotypical, lilting accent of the American south, “I invited you to a ball. I sent you so many letters. You truly don’t remember me?”

England winced, as several memories flooded back to him, “No, yes, of course I remember you, Alexander,” he said quickly, recalling the Confederate's human name, “I’m just surprised that you are… alive.”

Alexander lowered his head in shame, his hand drifting up to his missing arm, “So am I, sir,” he said sadly, “I’ve been shimmering in and outta’ limbo for a while now. I managed to stick around in the 50s and some o’ the 60s, but mainly it’s just been… flickering, you know?”

Gilbert inclined his head in understanding. After the dissolution of the Free State of Prussia, he’d gone through much a similar experience.

Alfred looked a little sheepish, “He manages to make it here every year, so sometimes we talk, sometimes we don’t. It’s just, nice, to see him again.”

Alexander shook his head, “Alfred, we tried to kill each other. You shouldn’t be happy to see me. No one should be happy to see me.”

Instead of answering, the northern American pulled his brother into a rib crushing hug. Alexander’s eyes flew open in surprise, and he awkwardly patted his brother on the back. “If you felt that way then you wouldn’t keep showing up here every year,” Alfred murmured, and the Europeans shifted uncomfortably. They felt they were intruding on quite the private moment.

Then, from behind them, they heard the sound of shattering glass. All the assembled nations turned in surprise, only to see a young woman in a modest black dress, staring in shock, a small glass bauble lying in pieces at her feet. Her eyes became teary, and her lip trembled, “Pa?” she asked, her voice wobbly with emotion.

Alexander’s eyes softened, then went to stricken alarm. “V-Virginia,” he stammered, his voice betraying him. Arthur looked at the others in shock, and by their faces, he guessed he had heard correctly. This young woman was the personification of the state of Virginia.

Alfred, for one, looked nervous, “Olivia, dear, I can explain-”

He didn’t get through it far enough, as Virginia ran forward into her father’s arm, breaking down into tears of joy. “I knew it!” she cried, “I knew you weren’t gone! I could feel you, in Richmond, all that time-” At first, Alexander didn’t know what to do, his mind going into red alert, but then, years of paternal instinct kicked in, and he returned the embrace.

“Shh,” the former Confederate cooed soothingly, rubbing her back, “Shh, Virginia, it’s alright, now…”

As Virginia continued to sob, Alexander looked, for the first time since the Europeans had arrived, happy. Obviously, he wasn’t happy that his daughter was crying, but he was happy to be able to see her again, to hold her again. His eldest child, his sweet Virginia. As Virginia winded down, she seemed to remember something. “Oh, Lordy, I’m so embarrassed,” she said, her face heating as she pulled herself away from her father, “I dropped your violin!” She quickly walked past the nations to sweep up the broken glass of what was indeed a small sculpture of a violin.

Alexander smiled fondly, “I always wondered who was putting those little things on my grave. Thank you, Virginia.” He took the shards from her and tucked them into a leather pouch on his belt. Then, the two remembered that there were other nations present. “Right!” Alexander exclaimed, turning to them, “England, France, Prussia, Japan, Germany, Canada, this is my eldest daughter, Olivia Jones, otherwise known as the great state of Virginia.”

Virginia curtseyed, "A pleasure to make your acquaintances, sirs." The assembled nations stared in response. Luckily, their ingrained senses of proper manners overcame their curiosity that states could have personifications, and they gave hastened pleasantries in reply. After acknowledging them, Virginia turned to her other parent, who was currently trying to slink out of view unnoticed. Sadly, he was not as accomplished at that particular skill as his northern brother, and Virginia slapped him across the face, hard enough to leave his cheek red and turn his head. Her face was a deep scowl, and in a voice that would send the bravest soldier running for the hills, she roared, “ALFRED F JONES, YOU’VE GOT SOME ‘SPLAININ TO DO!”

England would never admit it, but he shivered at the rigor of the angry Virginian. There were few things more terrifying than an angry American woman. Perhaps maybe an angry Jewish woman, or an angry Russian woman. Or an angry woman, in general. Point being, Arthur would much rather fight the Great War all over again than face the wrath of Olivia Jones. Alfred, for his part, just rubbed his cheek in shock. Virginia was still furious, and she pressed on, “Why didn’t you tell me my father was still alive, uncle?” she said the word as if it were an insult, and slowly Arthur realized it was. Olivia was angrily reminding Alfred that he was not her real father. Alfred and Alexander caught the slight as well, and while Alfred’s expression crumbled, Alex tried to calm his daughter down.

“It wasn’t his call, Olivia,” he said, gently pulling her away from her uncle, and Virginia turned to him. Alexander sighed, saying, “I asked Alfred to tell you all I died, I thought it would be easier for everyone. Better that than what actually happened…” His eyes drifted down to his missing arm, and Virginia started tearing up again.

“Oh, Pa,” she murmured, hugging him again. After she calmed down, Alex turned her towards Alfred.

“Now,” he said, putting his ‘Dad Voice’ back on, “Is there anything you’d like to say to your uncle, young lady?”

Virginia had the grace to look bashful, “I’m sorry I slapped you, Uncle Alfred.”

Alfred rubbed his cheek a little more, smiling at her reassuringly, “It’s no worry, you had a right and a reason. Now, if I’m not mistaken, you have business to attend to in Richmond, don’t you?”

Virginia’s expression became panicked, and she frantically checked her watch. “Damn, I’m late,” she swore, “The state legislature is debating a new bill today, and they wanted my opinion. I’m so sorry, I have to go. Pa, it was wonderful to see you again, don’t be a stranger. I love you, too, Uncle Alfred. A pleasure to meet you all. Goodbye, everyone! Oh, the governor’s going to have my head for this…” With that, Virginia hurried off to what was presumably a rather large chewing out from her governor.

“Alright, I think it’s time to go back ourselves, eh?” Matthew asked, and Arthur noticed his right hand was fidgeting toward his back pocket, and his expression looked more strained than usual.

“I believe you’re right, Matthew,” Arthur agreed, “It’s good to know you’re alright, Alfred. Alexander, it was good to see you again. We shall take our leave.” After the last of the goodbyes were given, the Europeans walked back through Arlington, leaving the Americans to grieve together. Finally, after watching Canada stop himself from reaching into his back pocket a total of six times, Arthur said, “Matthew, are you feeling quite alright?”

The Canadian jumped at the sound of his voice, the turned to face him with an obviously fake smile. “Just fine, Arthur,” he said a little too quickly, “Why do you ask?”

“You keep reaching for something in your back pocket like your life depends on it,” Arthur said flatly, and Francis and, less normally, Gilbert started to become concerned.

Matthew’s expression faltered for just a moment, enough for Arthur to know something was wrong, but soon in was cheerful again. “Oh, it’s nothing, Arthur,” he said breezily, “Just itching to listen to my music. Cemetery’s really bumming me out, y’know?”

“Hmm,” Arthur nodded, appearing to agree, and he dropped the subject. However, he noticed that Canada tried extra hard not to reach for whatever was in his back pocket. Gilbert frowned like he wanted to say something, but he held his tongue.

They reached the parking lot and went their separate ways, and as Arthur started the car, he turned to Francis. “Matthew is hiding something from us and Gilbert knows what it is,” he said simply. Francis’s eyes widened in surprise.

“But, Angleterre, how can you be sure?” he asked as they started to pull away.

“When he was stressed, Matthew reached for something in his back pocket,” Arthur started, not taking his eyes off the road, “When I confronted him, he deflected. However, Gilbert seemed to know something, but acted as if he were sworn to silence. As rambunctious as that Prussian bastard is, he can keep a secret if asked.”

Francis looked speechless. “B-but,” he stuttered, “What would Matthieu tell Gilbert that he would not tell us?”

“Maybe Gilbert found out by accident,” Arthur reasoned.

“Perhaps…” Francis agreed reluctantly, “Or perhaps…”

“Perhaps what?” Arthur questioned as he took a turn to the hotel.

“Nothing, nevermind,” Francis said dismissively, “It was a stupid thought.”

“Well now I’m intrigued,” Arthur chuckled, “You know I can’t pass up the chance to call you stupid.”

Francis smirked dryly, “You’re going to laugh at this one.”

“Out with it, Frog, what was your utterly stupid thought?” Arthur pressed.

“Well,” Francis said, starting to laugh a little himself, “I actually thought Matthieu and Gilbert might be in love!”

Arthur laughed aloud, “Oh, that’s rich, old chap. Our Matthew? Quiet, shy, Matthew, in love with Gilbert!? They’re the complete opposite of one another!”

Francis laughed along with him, “Oui, I know, right? It was so stupid of me! I really must be overly romantic!” The two continued laughing together as they walked inside the hotel, because really. Matthew and Gilbert together? What a silly concept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, everybody! Welcome to Redemption, the angstiest/fluffiest Hetalia story I've ever written. Because everything is better with self-loathing! Please, leave any comments you wish, though be warned, I realize that the CSA is still a sensitive subject among many, so I will NOT tolerate any hate in the comments, whether it be for or against the South, myself, or other readers. With all that unpleasantness out of the way, let's get on to the chapter. I put in a lot of reference to actual historical events, so I hope any history buffs out there will really enjoy them! There are a bunch of OCs in this, so as I introduce them I'll explain who they are in the note section. Please, enjoy!


	2. PruCan Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What a silly concept...

Matthew sighed relief was he reached a safe spot just outside of DC, where the lines between swamp and city were blurred. He pulled the joint and lighter out of his back pocket and lit up, leaning on the trunk of a tree, and let the green leaf take him. People, specifically his overbearing family, stressed him out way too fucking much. Sometimes, most of the time, he needed an escape. And as there currently were no Canadian taigas to calm him down, he turned to the next best thing: a hallucination of one. Gilbert, of course, didn’t like it when he did this, though Matthew had no idea why. The man drank so much beer he was probably the same level of gone that Matthew was, even if he was drunk instead of high. A nagging guilt worried at the back of his mind at the thought of Gilbert being disappointed, but a few more drags from his special cigarette made that thought go away. Soon, everything was just great. Matthew giggled drunkenly, taking another drag from the joint. 

Right now, sunlight was filtering through the trees, making all sorts a crazy patterns, man. A butterfly landed on his nose, and Matthew giggled again, which set it off, flying away. Pouting, Matthew stood and chased after it, mumbling something along the lines of, “Come back, Mr. Butterfly!” He tripped over a tree root and landed hard on his face, but he didn’t feel a thing. Matthew just turned over on his back, having given up on the butterfly, and laughed and toked until the joint was little but a nub of rolled, scorched paper. He wasn’t even sure why he was out here in the first place. He was running from something. No… not running… escaping, that’s what he called it. Escaping. What was he escaping…? No, who? Who was he in the first place? He laughed a little. He was so fucking high that he couldn’t even think of what his own name was. Good… he thought vaguely, good… Then, with no one else around to care, he fell asleep.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Gilbert tried the number again. He knew he hadn’t put it in wrong, he’d memorized it perfectly, so Matthew just wasn’t picking up. That was fine, no need to get concerned, he was probably just asleep, or busy. Or he didn’t hear his phone. Oh, Gott, what if he was at it again? He stood up and paced frantically.

“Bruder.”

What if Matthew was high? Or hurt? Or high and hurt, so he didn’t know to call for help?

“Bruder.”

Gilbert would have to go find him. Yes, that was it. He’d go find him and bring him home, no matter if he were high as a kite. Gilbert still loved him, and as such, it was his responsibility to take care of him. In sickness and in health. He made a vow, Gott verdammt! 

“Bruder!” Finally, Ludwig’s voice broke through Gilbert’s thoughts, and he turned to look at his brother.

“Ja, Ludwig?” Gilbert asked impatiently. He didn’t have time for this, he needed to go find Matthew.

“Bruder, you have been trying, and presumably failing, to call someone for the past twenty minutes,” Ludwig said straightforwardly, “After that, you started pacing and it took me three tries to get you to listen to me. Bruder, is something wrong?”

Gilbert laughed automatically. He usually laughed when he needed to cover something up, especially his relationship with Matthew. “Nein, of course not, Bruder. I’m fine, everything is fine! I am much too awesome for anything to be wrong! Hahahahahaha!”

Ludwig sighed. The younger brother stood up and grabbed Gilbert by the shoulders. Gilbert’s mask crumbled, and Ludwig couldn’t help but pity the look in his bruder’s face. “Gilbert…” Ludwig said softly, gently, “What is wrong?”

Gilbert shivered under his brother’s gaze, “I’m sorry, Ludwig. Truly, I am. But I’ve been sworn to secrecy. An unbreakable oath, until both parties agree otherwise.”

Ludwig was shocked. Gilbert swore an unbreakable oath with someone? This was unheard of. He took his brother by both hands, an imploring gesture. Then, he felt something odd under his brother’s right glove, at the base of the third finger. “Bruder, what is this on your hand?” Ludwig frowned, and he started to pull the glove off. Gilbert shrieked and quickly pulled the glove back on, then backed up quickly. Ludwig was shocked, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” he stammered, but Gilbert simply moved to the hotel room door and walked right out. 

Ludwig sat down heavily in an armchair. He’d seen a flash of gold on his brother’s third finger. Nein, not his third finger, his RING finger. His brother wore a wedding band under his glove. That, coupled with the unbreakable vow, explained everything. Gilbert, his bruder, was married. And Ludwig never even knew about it.


	3. Fractured but Whole

Dylan sighed as he found Patrick slumped in a pile of limbs under his table, the acrid scent of alcohol overpowering the room. Empty bottles littered the path from his brother’s stash to where he was passed out. “Christ, it’s enough to kill all the horses in the damn derby!” the Welshman marveled at the excessive amount of such empty bottles, especially as most of them were whiskey, and those that weren’t were either very refined German beers or very unrefined homemade moonshine. Basically, there was nothing present that was weaker than the whiskey.

“Come on, you great lug, let’s get you to bed,” Dylan said to a very, very unconscious Patrick as he moved to pick the Irishman up off the floor. As he touched his brother’s arm, Dylan recoiled in shock. His skin was cold to the touch. It wasn’t very chilly in the house, but just to be sure, Dylan checked his brother’s pulse at his neck. One. Two. Three. Four. Five seconds went by, and there was nothing. Dylan yelped and jumped away from his brother’s for- _body_. His brother’s body. Dylan quickly pulled out his phone and put in a conference call for the rest of the UK. Arthur was still across the pond, but this was way too important.

“Hello? Dylan?” Erin’s kindly, if not confused voice asked.

 “Whaddya want, Wales?” Allistor asked brashly.

“Dylan, do you have _any idea_ what time it is over here?” Arthur asked irritably, his voice still low from sleep.

“I just found Patrick’s body,” Dylan said, his voice shaking ever so slightly. It seemed far away from him, unreal in a way.

“Why was finding Patrick so important that you had to notify me when it’s _three am!?!_ ” Arthur questioned. 

“No, Arthur, I didn’t find Patrick,” Dylan said, his voice breaking fully now, “Dear God, I found his _body_.”

It took the others a minute to find out what he meant. “Oh, God in Heaven, _no_ …” Erin said in an anguished whisper.

“Damn it!” Allistor cried out suddenly, “Damn it all! Fuck, fuck fuckity, fuck fuck FUCK!” There was a series of crashes and screams over the line, and Dylan assumed the Scotsman was throwing things around in his house in Edinburgh.

There was an eerie and uncharacteristic silence over the line from Arthur. “What happened?” the Englishman asked, his voice low.

“I swear I don’t rightly know,” Dylan said sadly, “I just popped in to check on ‘im and I found the poor bastard surrounded by booze under his table. I checked for a pulse and got nothing.”

Arthur whispered something in shock that no one quite caught. “What was that, Artie?” Dylan asked,

“He drank himself to death,” Arthur said, his voice hollow. The rest of the Kirkland family stayed silent in shock. “Dylan,” Arthur said finally, “Stay with him. I’ll be over there as soon as I can.”

“Should I call someone?” Dylan asked.

“No,” Arthur said forcefully, “What are we going to tell the coroner when their alcohol poisoning victim suddenly _wakes up?_ ” 

Dylan whimpered, “Are we sure he’ll wake up? Has a nation ever… done this before?”

Arthur sighed, “Yes. I know for a fact that Patrick will wake up.” 

“ _HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT!?!_ ” Erin screamed over the phone, her voice raw and sorrowful.

Arthur sighed over the line, “Calm down, Erin. I know because I- Never mind how I know, I just do. I’ll be there soon. Dylan, whatever you do, don’t let him out your sight!” and he hung up.

“Did he just imply what I think he just implied?” Allistor asked his remaining siblings. Dylan nodded, then remembered that he was on the phone and that the Scotsman couldn’t see the gesture. Instead, he tried to find a voice.

“I think so,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“Dylan, I’ll come to see you and-” Erin caught herself, “And Patrick.”

Dylan hummed vaguely in response. Erin hung up, and Allistor hung up without another word. Dylan put his phone away and pulled out a chair, sitting above the prone form of his temporarily dead brother. “Cachu hwch,” he sighed forlornly.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Arthur sighed heavily as he got up from the bed, dawn just barely crawling its way through the dark, suffocating mud of the night. _Suffocating mud._ Arthur began to choke, coughing and spluttering on nothing, it was the air, but it was also the _mud_ , the war, and the rank of the dead and dying. The scent of _rot, the screaming, the pounding of the guns, the searing fire and that_ _suffocating mud_ _…!_ Arthur felt firm hands on his shoulders, and he was snapped back to reality. Francis was looking at him sadly, and Arthur desperately tried to steady his breathing.

“I-I’m alright,” he said finally, “I’m alright, Francis.”

Francis frowned, saying “You don’t seem alright, _Angleterre_. Another flashback?” Arthur nodded slowly. “You haven’t had one of those in a while… What set it off?”

“Patrick,” Arthur sighed, “He drank way too much last night. Dylan found him under the table.”

“Oh,” Francis said, trying to fight off the fond smirk so as to seem sympathetic to the Englishman’s ire.

“Dylan found him _without a pulse_ , Francis,” Arthur clarified, and all humorous undertones in the Frenchman’s expression disappeared.

“ _Oh_.” Francis responded, more emotion in his voice this time.

“I’m heading back to the UK immediately,” Arthur sighed, “This is a family matter.”

“I understand,” Francis sighed, patting his lover’s arm, “If you need me to come with you, if you need any support, I will.”

Arthur wanted to automatically say no, he could do this on his own, but something made him reconsider. “If you insist…” he muttered eventually, both preserving his pride and pleading desperately for help in the way only he could. Francis smiled fondly, poor, proud Arthur. Too stubborn for his own good.

“Come then, _Angleterre_ ,” he said, “Let’s pack up. I’ll look for a flight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, there, everybody! Here's the list:  
> Dylan - Wales  
> Patrick - Ireland  
> Erin - Northern Ireland  
> Allistor - Scotland  
> Also, Cachu hwch is a common Welsh slur for "It's all gone wrong"  
> And sorry, not sorry. Muwahahaha!


	4. The Lament of a Former Confederate

Alexander sighed wistfully as Alfred fell asleep on his shoulder. They were sitting on a stone bench in Arlington, an Alfred had finally cried himself out, now just resting fitfully on the Confederate’s shoulder. The cemetery’s visiting hours were long since over, but no one had discovered them yet. Alexander sighed as he looked at the grave they were sitting in front of.

 

_Col. Alexander S. Jones_

_1798-1865_

_CIVIL WAR_

_Beloved brother and honored enemy_

 

“Honored enemy”. Bullshit. Alexander knew damn well that he was an outcast. He didn’t even know why he kept coming here every year, why oh, why did he keep coming back? Keep reopening all these old wounds-- Alfred sniffled on his shoulder, and hummed in that sleepy, adorable way he did. Alexander’s heart turned to melted butter, and he remembered why he kept coming back. _Alfred_. He was too good a brother for his own good.

With a wistful smile, Alexander realized that once he disappeared, Alfred would fall and crack his head open on the stone of the bench. Funny as that would be, Alexander decided to shift his brother gently so that he was leaning back on the back of the bench rather than him.

“You know,” a voice said from somewhere behind them, “I thought it looked cuter with him on your shoulder.”

Alexander jumped up from the bench and in one fluent movement, took Alfred’s gun from his jacket and turned to point it at the intruder. Granted, Alexander hadn’t held a modern pistol before, but if there was anything that a Jones picked up on quickly, it was the operation of firearms. In front of him, a man with greying brown hair, a red cape, ancient bronze armor, and a winning smile that had probably seduced many a woman in his younger days. “Who are you?” Alexander asked, quietly but dangerously, gun still levelled at the man’s heart.

The stranger held up his hands in surrender, but Alexander got the feeling that he didn’t feel threatened in any way. With a start, he realized the man’s left hand was replaced by some sort of wooden apparatus, maybe some sort of crude prothstetic. “ _Salve, mi amice!_ ” the stranger said amicably, “Huh, you really lost your memories when you came back, didn’t you, _Alexānder?_ ”

The way he pronounced his name was quite peculiar, like he didn’t quite have a grasp on the English language. And that first thing he said, was that Latin? _Wait…_ Alexander thought, _Latin? Armor? Red cape?_ “Rome?” he asked.

“Ah!” Rome said in surprise, “You _do_ remember me!”

“By reputation only, sir, I assure you,” Alexander responded, lowering his weapon.

“All the better then,” Rome smiled broadly, “A chance for us to be reintroduced! I am Romulus Iulius Patricanus, the personification of the great Roman Empire! But please, call me Romulus.”

Alexander relaxed, just a little, then remembered his Southern manners. He holstered the gun and took of his hat in a sweeping bow, “Colonel Alexander S. Jones, personification of the Southern United States of America.”

Rome raised an eyebrow, “Not the Confederate States of America, perchance?”

“No,” Alexander said darkly, “Not anymore. And never again.”

Rome nodded sagely, “If you say.”

“I do,” Alexander growled.

Rome held up his hands in surrender, “I apologize, I did not mean to open old wounds,” he said placatingly, “I came to give you a proposal.”

“Which is…?” Alexander asked.

“A chance to stay here,” Rome said, “In the real world. For good.”

Alexander’s stomach dropped. Stay in the real world? For good? Stay with his brother and his children… for good? “How?” he found himself asking, his voice shaking slightly.

Rome’s smile became less boisterous, and more sincere. “I know it sounds impossible,” he said, his voice softer now, the look in his eyes betraying his aged wisdom, “But magic is all about impossible.”

“Magic?” Alexander asked.

“Oh, yes,” Rome agreed, “We Ancients have _very_ potent magic. It’s why you’re here in the first place.”

“It is?” he responded.

Rome hummed affirmatively, “We sent you down here to see if it would work. You see, it’s easier for someone with clearer issues.”

“Alright, stop,” Alexander said, “Whatever happened between us, I don’t remember it. Stop acting like I will, and start making sense.”

“Of course, _mi amice_ ,” Rome nodded, “We, being the Ancients, befriended you when you died and went to Heaven.”

“I went to Heaven…?” Alexander asked, his voice a tone of awed disbelief.

“Yes, of course, now don’t interrupt,” Rome said strictly, “After you died, you told us that Prussia was still hanging around, so we did some digging. As it turns out, Prussia was able to stick around because of one reason: he has peace of mind.”

“Peace of mind?” Alexander asked dryly, “Prussia?”

“Yes,” Rome said excitedly, “and-”

“As in,” he interrupted again, “Gilbert Beilschmidt?”

“Yes,” Rome said again after a pause, “And we’re currently trying to figure out how it works. It has some very hazy rules, but we think we’ve figured it out. Once you have peace of mind, you can be bonded to someone and stay tethered to the physical world. After that, it doesn’t matter if you fall into a depression again, because you’ll still be tethered to that person.”

“Wait,” Alexander said, holding up a hand, “If you’re right, then who is Prussia bonded to?”

Mischievous delight twinkled in Romulus’s eyes, “Ah, I’m afraid that would be spoilers,” he said, clearly taking joy in Alexander’s suffering, “But the point is, once you have a strong enough bond to someone, say, a brother, or a child, you get to stay. With a little magical help, of course, but we’ll handle that end.”

Alexander’s eyes strayed to his sleeping brother, still peacefully snoring on the bench. “How does the tethering work?” he asked eventually, “Do I need to be within a certain vicinity to my tether, or am I free to roam?”

“You are free,” Romulus assured him, “It is only a tether in a metaphorical sense.”

Alexander thought, and thought. Of course he _wanted_ to stay in the real world, that was just common sense. Being alive was generally better than being dead. But really, did he deserve it? He had done so many terrible things, there had to be at least an entire generation that would be out for his blood. But if he could see his brother and his children every hour of every day…

“I’ll do it.” Alexander said finally.

Romulus smiled widely, “ _Optime!_ Here’s what you need to do,” he pulled a worn piece of parchment from behind his back, probably tucked between the folds of his armor. Or at least, Alexander hoped so, considering the alternative. Nevertheless, he accepted the parchment as Romulus handed it to him, tucking it into his front shirt pocket. “You have one month. Just gather the people on that list in a private area, and I’ll take it from there.”

“What is that supposed to mea-” Alexander started to ask, but Romulus poked him in the forehead, and suddenly his eyelids got very heavy, and he fell asleep on the spot.


	5. A Hell of a List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who likes lists? I like lists!

Alexander woke up on the bench, Alfred leaning in on his shoulder. _Oh, God, it was real_ , he thought panickedly. Somewhere, he hoped his strange meeting with the personification of the Roman Empire was little more than a dream, and that he would wake up in the White Place where dead countries went. But it was _real_. He was back, really back. And he had one month to work out his issues before this cruel glimpse at heaven was stolen away once more. Rome had told him to gather the individuals listed on a piece of paper in his front pocket. Desperately, he reached into the cotton pocket and nearly despaired when he felt the worn, folded paper. Giving in to temptation, he took out the list and looked at the names:

 

_Antonio Carriedo (Spain)_

_Arthur Kirkland (England)_

_Francis Bonnefoy (France)_

_Allistor Kirkland (Scotland)_

_Erin Kirkland (Northern Ireland)_

_Patrick Kirkland (The Republic of Ireland)_

_Dylan Kirkland (Wales)_

_Lovino Vargas (Italy Romano)_

_Feliciano Vargas (Italy)_

_Ludwig Beilschmidt (Germany)_

_Gilbert Beilschmidt (Prussia)_

_Matthew Williams-Beilschmidt (Canada)_

_Alfred Jones (The United States of America)_

_Alexander Jones (The Southern United States of America)_

_Jett Kirkland (Australia)_

_Toby Kirkland (New Zealand)_

_Noah Jones (Texas)_

_Alan Jones (New York)_

_Olivia Jones (Virginia)_

_Benjamin Jones (Massachusetts)_

_Sophia Jones (Rhode Island)_

_Mason Jones (Maine)_

_Juan Jones (New Mexico)_

_Elijah Jones (Oklahoma)_

_Lauren Jones (Pennsylvania)_

_Peter Jones (North Carolina)_

_Anne Jones (South Carolina)_

_Suzanne Jones (Georgia)_

_Jill Jones (New Jersey)_

_James Jones (Tennessee)_

_Adelaide Jones (Louisiana)_

_Constance Jones (Connecticut)_

_Melissa Jones (Delaware)_

_Pierce Jones (New Hampshire)_

_Isabelle Jones (Maryland)_

_Hannah Jones (Colorado)_

_Todd Jones (Alaska)_

_Leilani Kahale-Jones (Hawaii)_

_Rosa Ramirez (Mexico)_

_Kiku Honda (Japan)_

_Roderich Beilschmidt (Austria)_

_Sadik Adnan (Turkey)_

_Yosef Molowitz (Israel)_

_Mathias Christensen (Denmark)_

_Tino Väinämöinen (Finland)_

_Emil Steilsson (Iceland)_

_Berwald Oxenstierna (Sweden)_

_Lukas Bondevik (Norway)_

_Ivan Braginsky (Russia)_

_Wang Yao (China)_

 

Alexander winced. That was a lot of people, most of which were his sworn enemies. He figured it was the Original Thirteen, the Dust Bowl States, some of the European countries, most of the G8, and the two Non-Continental States. Plus, of course, Alfred and himself.

Speaking of whom, Alfred began to stir, and Alexander went into a brand new wave of panic. What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to say? Alfred sat up, yawned, and after a minute, noticed he was still sitting next to someone. “You’re still here!” he cheered, throwing his arms around his brother, and ALexander grunted in pain.

“Alfred,” he wheezed, “Can’t breathe!”

“Right, right, sorry,” Alfred said, flustered, “But… you’re still here!”

“Yessir, I suppose I am,” Alexander responded, breaking into a grin and a hearty laugh. He was _still here_ . Still next to his brother, still in the world of the living, out of the White Place, out of the hazy nothingness. He was _here_.

Alfred noticed the list in his hand, and before Alexander could tuck it away, his brother snatched it out of his hand. Alexander gave a small cry of indignation, and after skimming it over, Alfred asked, “What is this?”

Alexander considered lying. He really did, but something in his brother’s cheerful blue eyes made him think twice. “While you were sleeping I had a… visitor,” Alexander started, “He claimed to be the personification of the Roman Empire. He told me he and the other Ancients had sent me down here so that I could stay, as a test to see if it could work for the rest of them, too. All I need to do to seal the deal is gather all those people,” he gestured to the list, “in one, private location.”

Alfred stared at him, “You met _Rome!?!_ ” he asked.

“I know, I thought it was crazy, too,” Alexander agreed, eager to disregard the topic, but Alfred jumped up and let out a high-pitched squeal. An honest-to-God _squeal_.

“DUDE! This is amazing, Rome only shows up when something really big is happening!” Alfred said excitedly, “This must be real! I- I need to make some calls! Come on, come on, come on!” Alfred grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him along through the cemetery, back up the hill, all somberness forgotten. Alexander stumbled behind his brother as he was pulled along past a very surprised security guard and out into the parking lot. Still, he couldn’t help but smile as Alfred stuffed him in the car and started driving to his office in DC. Maybe things were looking up after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, sorry. This was really just the Cast of Characters section. I decided I was lazy, so this is what I did. tada! Now you know who everyone is!


	6. Mr. Jones, the Floor is Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Politicians suck.

Alexander regretted this already. And, once again, it was because of Congress’s bullshit. In order for Alfred to call a world meeting, he needed the go ahead from the government. However, since Alfred needed a good reason, he needed Alexander to appear before Congress, the Presidential Cabinet, and the Supreme Court and plead his case. His case that included the fact that the greatest enemy in the history of their country was a) alive, and b) had seen an apparition of the personification of the Roman Empire, whom had told him to call a world meeting, including some major world powers such as Russia and China, for a glorified therapy session. “Nervous?” his brother asked after watching him fix his tie and smooth out his jacket for the umpteenth time.

“Well, last time I was in the Senate Chamber I punched you in the face and declared war on the government,” Alexander said to him flatly, “So yes, I’m nervous.”

“Yeah, I was gonna ask you to hold off on that,” Alfred responded, and Alexander tried, and failed, to smother a grin.

“I promise I won’t declare war,” he said carefully.

“Thank you- hey!” Alfred said as he realized the loophole that allowed Alexander to still punch him in the face. In retaliation, Alfred swatted his brother’s arm, and they both laughed.

Then, the mood immediately cowed as a bailiff came in, “Mr. Jones,” he said stiffly, “They are ready for you.”

“Right,” Alfred said as he stood up, “Wish me luck.”

“Burn in Hell, Yankee,” Alexander responded promptly. Alfred looked at him, “Kidding! I was kidding!” he said indignantly, “Am I not allowed to make jokes?” Alfred only smiled and walked into the Chamber. In his absence, Alexander stood up and paced around the room, the bailiff watching him intently.

 

As Alfred descended the ramp, the room fell quiet. The Senate Chamber had been closed to the public today, for obvious reasons, and the seats they would have occupied were taken up by the members of the House and Cabinet that couldn’t fit on the main floor. At the front of the chamber, sat forebodingly in his wooden chair, sat the Leader of the Free World, President of the United States of America Robert O’Shea. He normally wasn’t a very imposing man, but years of acting skill had given him quite the stern mask, so he could look very imposing when he wanted to. O’Shea was the first openly bisexual president, a fact that made him quite popular with the Democratic Party. However, he ran on the Republican ticket, and had several right wing policies that made him popular with the home team. His policies were an interesting mix between left and right, making him one of the most neutral president in all history, and, thankfully, the one least likely to kick Alexander to the curb out of hand. “Alfred F. Jones,” President O’Shea started, his voice booming across the chamber, making many younger politicians pale, “You called this meeting of the _entire_ government of these United States so as to provide your reasoning for calling an impromptu world meeting of a select few personifications, as denoted on this list,” he held up the list, which had been resting on the desk space in front of him, “Now is your time to plead your case. Why should I authorize this?”

Alfred cleared his throat, “Well, Mr. President,” he started, “For starters, it’s not my proposal. Credit belongs to a different one of America’s personifications.”

A murmur passed through the crowd, and the President shifted in surprise, “One of the states requested this?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Alfred said, and he let go of the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, “One hundred and twenty years ago, our country was plunged into civil war. In response to the abolishment of slavery, the southern portion of our great nation seceded from the union and formed the Confederate States of America. Even before the secession, the North and South had very distinct cultures. As in Italy, this gendered two personifications for the nation. Myself, and another.”

The President’s eyes widened, “Are you saying-” he didn’t dare finish his thought.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of Congress, the Supreme Court, and the Presidential Cabinet,” Alfred declared, “May I present to you my brother, Alexander S. Jones, Personification of the Southern United States of America.”

With a sense of finality, Alfred turned back to the door, which started to open slowly. Murmurs and whispers raced through the crowd, and out from the waiting room stepped Alexander, dressed in a fine cotton suit, the left sleeve pinned up with a gold button at the shoulder. Slowly, he started walking down the aisle, casting the politicians several wary glances. Unease and apprehension rippled through the senate floor, and the President maintained a stony silence. Alexander finally stood shoulder to shoulder with his brother, and the President spoke. “Alfred, please sit down,” he ordered. Alfred gave his brother a sympathetic look, then took his seat on the outskirts of the center floor. Alexander raised his head high, and look the President in the eye. “Alexander S. Jones,” he began, slowly, carefully, “You have been brought before the entire government of the United States of America to plead your case. Plead.”

Alexander nodded in acknowledgement, then cleared his throat to begin. “Ladies and gentlemen of the government,” he began, and a few of the Democrats sat back in disgust at the sound of his accent. Alfred shot them a look, and they quickly leaned forward to feign interest. “I realize that many of you are confused, and perhaps angry,” Alexander continued, “So allow me to explain. After the Civil War ended in 1865, I died. Almost. For decades, I’ve been flickering between this world and the next, never quite belonging to either of them. But, I’ve managed to appear at Arlington National Cemetery every year to…” he trailed off, looking at Alfred uncertainly. Alfred gave a nod of encouragement, so he continued, “... to comfort my brother. This year, though, something unusual happened. I was… visited, I suppose is the right word. By a ghost.”

“A ghost?” the President said, incredulity lacing his voice, “You want to call a world meeting because of a ghost?”

“The ghost of Romulus Iulius Patricanus,” Alexander confirmed, “Otherwise known as the personification of the Roman Empire.” A ripple of surprise went through the crowd, and one of the politicians stood up.

“He’s lying!” they shouted.

“Let him speak!” another cried.

“No, he’s crazy!”

Just as the floor descended into chaos, a brilliant light shone through the windows, and the politicians cried out as they were blinded. The light faded just as quickly as it had appeared, but now in the center of the floor was a spear, stabbed into the ground, a note pinned to the shaft. As no one was moving, still in shock, Alfred calmly stood up, removed the spear from the ground, then removed the note from the spear, and after looking it over, smirked and handed it over to the President. President O’Shea read the note, looked up at Alexander, and just said, “Huh. ‘Veritas Dicit’. ‘He speaks truth’.” The politicians went silent. Slowly, they began to sit down, one by one, and looked at the President, waiting for his word. The President glowered at the Southerner, before letting the stern mask fall and breaking into a sly grin. “Well, you don’t need to tell me twice. I’ve always been a believer in the other side. Congratulations, Alexander. You have your meeting.”

Alexander breathed an incredulous sigh of relief. He couldn’t believe it. Maybe… maybe this government wasn’t all that bad… Alfred jumped up from behind him and clapped his hands on Alexander’s shoulders, whooping with joy. A bemused President O’Shea shushed him, and Alfred quieted himself sheepishly and led Alexander out of the Senate Chamber. “Come on,” he said to his brother, “Let’s go make some calls!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't kill me! I'm sorry I got political, it won't happen again!


	7. Fire and Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nations are gathered and the stage is set. All that's left now is to set out on the emotional journey laid before them.

Finally, the last nation entered the meeting room, that nation being Yosef, otherwise known as Israel. As Yosef took his seat, Alexander stood up and addressed the gathered nations and states. “Thank you all for coming,” he began, and he looked around the room, making eye contact with every individual. He took note that Patrick was sitting as far from the rest of the British Isles as possible, the situation being the same with Gilbert and Ludwig, which was  _ much _ more unusual. Nonetheless, he kept talking, “I gathered you all here because I was visited by-”

“Me!” an eager voice interrupted him, and the doors burst open, revealing Rome, standing there in all his glory. Some of the nations gasped in surprise, whereas others, the ones that knew him, such as Israel and China, sighed in exasperation. Peculiarly, Mathias looked deathly pale. “Hello, nations and states of the world!” he proclaimed, striding to the front of the room beside Alexander, “I, as you all know, am Romulus Iulius Patricanus, otherwise known as the great Roman Empire! And at my word, Alexander has gathered you all here for a very important purpose!”

“And what is that purpose, you damned conqueror?” Yosef grumbled, and Rome spotted him for the first time, and his cheerful expression faltered.

“Israel…” Rome breathed sadly, sorrow sparking in his eyes, and for the first time he looked old, like the ancient empire he was, “You… look so much like your mother…”

Yosef made an alarmed strangled noise, and stayed silent. Rome cleared his throat uncomfortably, then continued, “Ahem, yes, ah, as I was saying,” he stammered, trying not to stare at the young Israeli, “We, being the Ancients, have found something remarkable. We are able to return to the world of the living.”

“Well, duh!” New York snapped from the side of the room, “How else would you be here?”

“You misunderstand my meaning,” Rome said, shaking his head, “This is just a visit, a temporary vision. I am only able to be here because of my bond with my grandsons, but that connection is tenuous at best. We need something more, something one of our peers had already accomplished, that peer being Prussia.”

Gilbert jolted in surprise, “Me?” he asked incredulously, comically pointing at himself. Matthew tried very, very hard not to laugh. He failed.

“ _ Ita vero _ , you,” Rome agreed solemnly, “You see, my friend, you accomplished what the rest of us have not. Peace of mind!”

Ludwig looked at Rome, looked to his brother, then back to Rome. “Are you serious?” he asked finally, disbelieving.

Gilbert blushed sheepishly, “As it turns out, being a prisoner of a Communist dictatorship gives you a lot of time for self reflection,” he explained, and Ivan had the grace to look bashful.

“I am sorry you were caught between Mr. Amerika and I, Gilbert,” Ivan said, still smiling creepily, “But if you enjoyed our time together, I would be more than happy to become one with-”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” Matthew roared as he jumped from his seat, slamming his hands down on the table. Everyone stared at the normally soft-spoken Canadian, who was too blinded by rage to register what he had just done.

A purple aura gathered around Russia, and the temperature in the room dropped about thirty degrees. “Well, I certainly did not expect that from  _ you _ , Mr. Canada,” Ivan smiled sweetly, “Perhaps you are as strong as your brother, da?”

Matthew’s lavender eyes burned. The temperature dropped again, but this time the nations knew it was because of the Canadian’s fury, not the Russian’s. Ivan’s eyes widened as his breath started to mist in front of him. Worst of all, it was so cold that he started to shiver. Arthur and Francis looked like they wanted to say something, but they were too afraid. No one had seen Canada this angry before. The only person in the room that was unaffected by the sub-zero onslaught was the teen in the corner wearing a red flannel shirt and warm, snug jeans with combination snow/work boots. This was Todd Jones, the personification of Alaska, and he was so used to the cold from both Canada and Russia that he was unphased, simply watching, and waiting. Finally, after the coldest stare down in history, Todd removed himself from the wall and stood between Ivan and Matthew.

“You’ve had your fun,” Todd said cooly, “Now sit down. Both of you. You’re just making this unpleasant for everyone.” That seemed to snap Matthew out of it. His gaze relaxed, and the lavender fire seemed to lessen. He sat down slowly, and Ivan’s aura started to dissipate. Matthew shot one more glare in the Russian’s direction, and the temperature finally returned to normal. Rome and Israel didn’t stop shivering, however, as they were used to much warmer climates. Todd, for his part, calmly returned to the side of the room, and looked at the ancient empire. “Please, Rome,” the Alaskan said, “Continue.”

Rome clamped his clattering teeth shut. Muttering to himself in Latin about the cold, he cleared his throat and began again. “As I was saying before I was so  _ rudely _ interrupted,” he glared at Canada and Russia, “Gilbert, because of your mindset, you were able to stay in the real world until you found a tether, a loved one you could depend on.” Ludwig stared at his brother, who blushed and looked away, not able to meet his gaze. “So, the purpose of this meeting is to grant Alexander peace of mind, so that he may remain in the real world and wait for the rest of us Ancients to follow,” Rome continued, “But, there is an… ulterior motive.”

“Fucking brilliant,” New Jersey muttered darkly. Alfred shot her a look, and she rolled her eyes and continued listening.

“Everyone in this room either has a loved one that is, or is themselves suffering,” Rome proclaimed, “And we, your forefathers, will stand for it no longer. I realize that after living for hundreds of years it makes you accumulate some issues, but it’s high time we wipe the slate clean, before it destroys us.” From behind his back, Rome pulled out a small, leather bound booklet. “In this book, there are the recorded memories of many individuals in this room. Everyone will be viewing them here, and none shall be allowed to leave the building until we are finished. Some will be simple text entries, others will be ethereal visions, crafted by myself and the other Ancients. Many of these are from times of strife and sorrow, though as I realize that is quite depressing, there will also be lighter, happier memories included, so as to balance things out, if you will. Is everyone prepared?”

The nations of the world looked around at each other uncomfortably. Finally, Matthew stood up, and looked Rome in the eye, “These memories, will they include things we’ve kept secret?” he asked.

The old Roman held his gaze unwaveringly. “Almost exclusively.”

Matthew looked at Gilbert, then guiltily thought about the pack in his back pocket. “Alright, then,” he almost whispered, and he sat back down. Ludwig’s eyes narrowed as he watched the exchange, the beginnings of an idea forming in his head. But… no, that was impossible. Wasn’t it? Ludwig hummed in displeasure, so Feliciano hugged his arm. Trying not to blush, Ludwig patted the Italian’s head in acknowledgement. With a little spark of anger, he realized he’d lost his train of thought.  _ Oh, well, _ he thought wistfully,  _ at least Italy is here. _

“Is everyone now ready?” Rome asked. Solemn, determined nods passed around the room. Romulus smiled warmly, “Good. Now, I’m afraid I must take my leave of you. I cannot stay here much longer.”

“What?” Feliciano asked incredulously, “But you just  _ got  _ here!” Adorably, Feliciano tackled Romulus in a tight hug, making the Roman laugh and ruffle the Italian’s hair, even if Italy was too light to knock him over. “Please don’t go, Grandpa Rome!” Feliciano wailed, and Romano scowled and muttered something about not minding if the “Latin bastard” decided to stay. Spain smiled and patted his head, leading to Romano smacking him. No one caught the quick flash of anguish on the Spaniard’s face before it flicked back to the laughing mask he wore.

Alexander put a reassuring hand on Romulus’s shoulder, and the Roman looked torn between staying and leaving. Finally, after looking at his grandson uncertainly, he smiled, “Ah,  _ di immortales _ , I can’t say no to you. Fine, I’ll stay and watch the memories with you.”

Feliciano cheered and pulled Romulus to an empty chair beside his seat next to Germany. The Roman laughed and allowed his grandson to sit him down, then looked at Alexander expectantly. “Well?” he asked, “What are you waiting for?”

Alexander looked down at the book. “Drama, I suppose,” he responded, breaking into a sly grin. Romulus laughed heartily, and Alexander opened the book. A warm, bright light filled the room, and the adventure began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're almost at the juicy bit! Hooray for angst!


	8. Love and War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All's fair," they said...

They found themselves in an open field, with a man in a black coat and a man in a blue coat, staring out at a mass of red. WIth a jolt, several people recognized a younger Prussia and France, during colonial times, staring out at what have must been the British Army. Alfred gasped in surprise, “This is the Revolution!” he realized, and laughed as he spotted himself speaking with a human officer a few yards away, discussing strategy. However, America wasn’t the focus of the memory. The younger Prussia turned to France, pointing at the opposing side.

“France, who is that?” he asked, gesturing to a blonde man with lavender eyes, his face set in grim determination as he fixed his bayonet.

France looked up in surprise, and not-too-distant pain shone in his eyes. “Ah… that is Matthieu.” Prussia raised an eyebrow. “Ah, forgive me, I mean Canada,” France corrected himself.

Prussia hummed to himself, eyeing the colony suspiciously, “He was one of yours before, wasn’t he? Will he be a threat?” he asked his companion.

“I… do not know,” France admitted, “He was such a sweet boy, very peaceful, wouldn’t hurt a fly. But ever since _Angleterre_ starting taking care of him, he has become more… belligerent.”

Prussia nodded, “I’ll work him into the plan, then. He might be Arthur’s ace in the hole.”

France nodded in return, “Of course. That’s a good idea. Do it. I’m going to go draft another letter to Lafayette, he asked for updates.”

“Of course,” Prussia said, “I’ll go speak to Alfred.” France started walking back to the camp, but Prussia wavered a while longer, still staring at the young Canadian. Finally, he shook himself and started making his way over to Alfred and the young human commander named Alexander Hamilton.

The scene changed to the other side of the field, where Matthew was fixing his bayonet to his musket. The nations felt a wave of anger and pain unlike anything they’d felt before, and slowly they realized it was coming from the past form of the Canadian. “Does everyone else feel that?” Alfred asked, and he got numerous nods of assent.

“Matthew, what in the world were you so angry at?” Arthur asked, and Matthew flushed.

“Ah, it’s ah…” he stalled, trying anything to dodge the question, “I’d really rather not talk about it.”

“Come now, _Matthaeus_ ,” Romulus encouraged, slapping Canada’s back with a surprising amount of force, “This whole endeavor is _about_ talking!”

At that moment, Past Arthur came up behind Past Matthew, saying “This will all be over soon, Matthew. We’ll beat Alfred into submission and bring him back into the family. I know that this has been hard on you, having to fight your brother, but fight with me now, and all your dedication will be rewarded. I promise.”

Past Matthew stood up and smiled roguishly. “Oh, Arthur, I’m not wavering anymore.”

Arthur looked surprised. “You’re not?” he asked, “He _is_ still your twin, Matthew.”

“No,” Matthew declared, turning to face the American forces on the other hill, “He gave up that title the moment those first shots were fired in Lexington. Now, he’s just an enemy on the other side of the battlefield, same as Francis, just like you taught me.”

Past Arthur looked vaguely guilty, but his expression hardened before Matthew turned back to him. “Right you are, Matthew,” Arthur agreed, then he amended his statement, “Right you are, _son._ In light of your persistent loyalty, I want you to lead a group of spies behind enemy lines, then report back to me with whatever you have.”

Past Matthew beamed with pride at the assignment, then saluted and turned to rally his troops. As he turned, he spotted a black coat among the sea of blue and white. “Arthur?” he asked, “Who’s that, in the black coat?”

Arthur looked where he was gesturing, then his eyes narrowed, “ _Gilbert_ ,” he spat.

“Who?” Matthew asked again.

“That man is Prussia, Matthew,” Arthur explained, “He’s a military genius, much as it pains me to say it. We’re in for much more of a fight than we originally bargained for. If you meet him on the battlefield, you must promise me that you will run. Do _not_ try to fight him. I… I can’t lose you too.”

Matthew nodded with absolute conviction, “Of course, Arthur. I’ll stay away.”

The scene changed for a third time, and the nations found themselves in the American camp. The handspun flag of Betsy Ross flew from a flagpole a few yards away, and soldiers in blue coats milled about, some stocking up on ammunition, others trying to ignore their impending battle with campfire stories and card games. They saw Prussia in his black coat and tricorn hat, just exiting his tent, when there was a ruckus from the camp’s entrance. A band of Americans came through the small opening in the brush, with a small contingent of British soldiers in the middle of their throng, disarmed and bound at the wrists. Among them was none other than Matthew Williams.

“General!” one of the Americans called out, “We’ve caught us some lobsterback spies! Should we kill ‘em?”

Prussia looked through the crowd, then his eyes widened in surprise. “ _Nun, ich werde verdammt sein_ ,” he crowed, strutting over to the captured British soldiers, “If it isn’t Matthew Williams. You’ve just saved me quite a lot of trouble, redcoat! You there, men! Take this man to my tent! He’s closely related to the British commander Sir Arthur Kirkland, we could be able to use him as leverage.”

A couple of patriots took Matthew by each arm and dragged him to Gilbert’s tent, then those that remained asked “Sir, what about these ones?”

Gilbert looked at the fearful British soldiers, then decided, “Let them go. They’re probably going to die in a few hours anyhow, no sense in killing them while they can’t fight back.”

The American grumbled then turned his patrol out of the camp again, guiding the British back to their lines. The nations followed Gilbert into the tent, where Matthew was giving the death stare to a cup of tea that was set on the table in front of him. “It’s not poisoned, you know,” Gilbert said, sitting at the opposite end of the table, “Not like I could kill you anyway, _Canada_.”

Matthew’s eyes widened, “Then you know who I am?”

Gilbert snorted, “Don’t insult me, boy! Why else would I keep you here instead of turning you loose like the others?”

“You turned them loose?” Matthew asked, confused, “Why? I thought for sure you would’ve had them executed.”

The Prussian merely took a sip from his teacup, saying “Don’t believe everything you hear, Matthew Williams.” Canada couldn’t come up with a response, so he continued to stare at the tea in front of him. Prussia sighed as he looked into the orange depths of the tea, saying, “You know, this whole thing started over tea? There was more of course, but it seems so silly to start a war by throwing a bunch of tea into a harbor, you know? Back in the Old World, you’d need a whole bunch of men, muskets, swords, ships and the like, but here? Just throw a few crates overboard, shoot a few farmers and boom! Revolution across the colonies. Me, I’m just in it to knock dear old Arthur off his high horse, but I suppose that the kid’s grown on me.”

For the first time, Matthew spoke, “He has that effect on people. His charisma, it’s… contagious. Dangerous.”

Prussia hummed noncommittally, taking another sip. Without another word, he stood up and left the tent. A moment later, after the nations were blinded by a bright flash, Prussia reentered the tent. Matthew looked up as he came in, something like hope in his eyes. Prussia, however, looked grim and sad, like he had bad news. He sat down at the end of the table and said, “Your brother was victorious. The British are retreating to Yorktown.”

It took the nations a while to realize that some time had probably passed, and that the Americans had started gaining traction in the war. Past Matthew’s face fell as he realized what Prussia meant. “B-but… what about me…?”

Gilbert splayed his hands, as if showing he had nothing left to give, “I suppose Arthur just couldn’t hold out long enough to negotiate terms for your release. Either that, or…” He let the unspoken ‘He doesn’t care’ hang in the air between them.

Matthew put up a brave fight. His eyes dropped to the empty teacup in front of him, his hand trembled, his lips quivered, he bowed his head, and his shoulders started to shake. Finally, the Canadian couldn’t bear it anymore, and a broken, tortured sob broke from his lips. “Why?” he asked the cruel, unforgiving world, “Why, why, why?” He pounded his fist against the table, and Gilbert stood up, crossed the tent in three quick strides, and knelt beside the young colony, patting his back soothingly and letting him cry himself out.

“ _Ruhe, kind, ruhe_ ,” he cooed softly, continuing to rub at Matthew’s back. The nations felt a wave of sympathy crash over them, and the one clear thought, in Gilbert’s voice, spoke in their minds, _He is so young, not even a fraction of the age of us Europeans. He is but a child! How could you be so cruel, Arthur?_

Meanwhile, Present Arthur looked horrified. “Matthew, I-- I’m so sorry,” he stammered, “I wanted to come back for you, I really did, but we lost so badly, we were in such a rush, I couldn’t… you just… slipped my mind.”

Matthew smiled sadly as he watched himself languish in the past, saying, “It’s alright, Arthur. I figured as much. It wasn’t your fault, but in the moment it just… it hurt. Being abandoned again.”

From the back of the group, Australia snorted. New Zealand swatted his arm scoldingly, but no one caught Jett’s mutter of “You don’t know the first thing about abandonment.”

Past Matthew continued to sob, and Gilbert continued to dutifully stay by his side, soothing him, until the scene faded to white. The nations found themselves in a small, secluded forest, with a small, quaint little waterfall tumbling off the rocks into a narrow stream. Matthew and Gilbert sat a little ways away, chatting and laughing with each other. Then, as Matthew was admiring the scenic beauty of the forest, Gilbert started blushing madly and produced from his pocket a small golden ring, with a large, clear, African diamond glittering on it. “Birdie…” he started awkwardly, and Matthew turned back to him, not yet noticing the ring, “I do not know if this is really appropriate, but I can no longer ignore the way I feel about you. Matthew, I…” Gilbert but his lip, then held out the ring, screwing his courage to the sticking place, “Matthew Williams, I love you more than anything, and I would be the happiest man in the world if you agreed to marry me!”

Matthew stared at him, shocked. “G-Gilbert, I…” his voice died in his throat, and he blushed as he stared at the diamond ring, “I don’t know what to say, I mean… wouldn’t that be illegal? Isn’t it a sin, for two men to be wed? The Church, our families, they would shun us. Disown us!”

Gilbert bolted up to his knees, “I know, I know it is wrong in the eyes of Man, but this feeling, these emotions, they cannot be wrong! Gott created love, Birdie, so how could love be a sin, in any form?” he pleaded, “Please, Birdie, please! I cannot live without knowing anymore! _Willst du mich heiraten?_ ”

Matthew blushed profusely, still staring at the ring, “I, well, I mean, I…” he stammered, then he looked into Gilbert’s eyes. The normally fiery, intense red was replaced by a desperate yearning, an emotion so intense that Matthew fell in love all over again. “Yes,” he whispered, then he cleared his throat and said again, louder this time, “Yes! YES! YES, YES, YES!” He tackled Gilbert into a teary-eyed hug, and the two wrapped around each other, laughing and crying, and now, finally, kissing, as lovers should.

  
Finally, from the group of assembled nations and states, a shrill “Awwwwwww!” could be heard from the group, and they all stared as a girl with tanned skin and a floral dress swooned, “Isn’t it _romantic?_ ” Hawaii cooed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Nun, ich werde verdammt sein!" - "Well, I'll be damned!"  
> "Ruhe, kind, ruhe," - "Hush, child, hush,"  
> "Willst du mich heiraten?" - "Will you marry me?"
> 
> You're welcome ;)


	9. Ihr Kampf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you deal with being a gay SS officer at the height of the Holocaust?

Francis finally broke at Leilani’s comment. “ _ Oui _ , it is, it is!” he cried, flinging his arms around the young Hawaiian, “Two men, on opposing sides of a war, refusing to be bound by the restraints of even the Church itself! It’s a love story for the ages!” As the two fangirled over their relationship, Matthew and Gilbert sighed exasperatedly.

Arthur and Ludwig stared at them. “I had no idea…” Arthur breathed.

“Neither did I!” Ludwig agreed.

“Why were we not told!?!” they both shouted at the same time, indignance overboiling.

Gilbert shifted uncomfortably. “We had a good reason, I swear!” he insisted, “I’m just… not allowed to tell you what it was…”

Matthew smiled sadly and patted Gilbert’s arm lovingly, “I’m pretty sure the cat’s outta the bag, eh?” he turned to Ludwig and stared him straight in the eye, “We had two good reasons. One, gay marriage was illegal, we would’ve been shunned by both of you.”

“A… fair point…” Arthur begrudgingly agreed, “We weren’t exactly the most open-minded sort back then, were we, Ludwig, old chap?”

Ludwig ignored him. “And… the second reason…?” he asked, fearing he already knew the answer.

Matthew hung his head. At that moment, the scene reilluminated itself, and Israel gasped in horrified recognition. They were in Nazi Germany, specifically Auschwitz Concentration Camp. “The Holocaust,” Matthew confirmed, and Gilbert, Ludwig, and Yosef flinched at the word. 

The mood soured immediately, and now Francis was holding Leilani so as to prevent her from seeing the horror of what was before them. Many of the states looked like they were going to be sick. In fact, only Georgia and Texas looked like they weren’t quite as disturbed by the sight of it. “Nein!” Ludwig screeched, waving his hands and stepping back quickly, “please, if there is a Gott,  _ nein! _ I don’t want to see it again!” 

Romulus and Yosef stood at the railing together, staring down at the same spot. In the main camp, a woman curled into a ball uselessly, a bunch of German soldiers beating her with their rifles. Her hair was black and dirtied, her skin was tanned by the sun, and a long time ago, she might have been beautiful. A little ways away, a young boy cried as he watched them do it. “אמא” Yosef breathed.

“Adinah…” Romulus sighed sadly.

They were standing on the wall, with the past forms of Germany and Prussia standing a little ways away. Prussia was in his usual blue uniform, but Germany was wearing the jet black colors of the SS, the bright red of the swastika standing out on his right arm. In the main camp below, the moans of the Jews being put to work and death could be heard, and many could tell the distinct disgust in both Germans’ faces. However, they were disgusted by two different things. Gilbert was disgusted by the camp. Ludwig was disgusted by the camp’s occupants. Finally, Ludwig turned to his brother and scoffed, saying, “ _ Bruder _ , how many times have I told you? You need to stop wearing that uniform, you don’t look like a German!”

Gilbert scoffed in return, tilting his head up indignantly, “I will wear whatever uniform I choose,  _ danke dir! _ And I’m not  _ German _ , I’m  _ Prussian! _ ”

“Do not say those things!” Ludwig insisted, “Or would you rather join the  _ judischen swein  _ down there for all your pride?”

Gilbert’s charisma faltered as he stared at the languishing Jews. Behind his back, where Past Ludwig couldn’t see, but the present nations could, his hand went to his ring underneath his glove. “ _ Nein, _ of course not. I will… try to wear the new uniform…”

Ludwig breathed a sigh of relief. “ _ Danke, bruder _ ,” he said gratefully, then the scene changed. 

Past Gilbert was standing in the snow, now wearing the SS uniform, while gathering up escaped prisoners from a nearby concentration camp. The scared prisoners were despairing for their lives as the SS officers shackled them and prepared to march them through the snow. It was only two men, both of their jumpsuits marked with the purple triangle, meaning they were homosexuals. And they were so close to the Swiss border, too… Gilbert swore. Cursing even more, he ordered for the men to stop. Confused, they stopped and came over to him, roughly dragging the prisoners behind them. Without warning, Gilbert slammed his fist into the SS officer’s nose, then drew his pistol and shot the others. After that was done, he turned and shot the first officer, then turned to the prisoners. “Switzerland is that way,” he said gruffly, pointing to the west, “Do not stop until you reach it, and tell no one what you saw here,  _ in ordnung? _ ”

The prisoners stared at him dumbfoundedly. Sighing in exasperation, Gilbert shot their shackles off, which seemed to bring them out of their shock. “W-why…” one of them asked, his dry lips cracking in the cold, “Why are you helping us?”

Gilbert hung his head, then pulled off his glove and showed them his ring. Their eyes widened in surprise. “Tell no one what you saw,  _ ja? _ ” he grumbled, replacing his glove. Then, he shot himself in the stomach, and as the bullet tore through him, he cried out in pain. “Here, take the gun,” he gasped, handing it to them, “If anyone asks, you overpowered us  _ unt _ barely escaped with your lives. No gow!” After Gilbert’s final roar, the prisoners yelped and hightailed it to the west, and Gilbert groaned and started the painful trudge back to base, a trail of blood oozing from his abdomen. The scene fast forwarded to Gilbert collapsing in the snow, just a few yards from the treeline and the lights of the base, and he didn’t get back up. The nations started to hear his heartbeat, pounding in their ears, slowing, and slowing, and slowing, until finally… gone. A few hours later, Gilbert awoke with a gasp, his wounds completely healed, and he jumped out of the snow as it it were on fire. Then, all the memories came rushing back to him, and he collapsed by a tree, beginning to cry hysterically, holding his head in his hands and gripping his white hair so tight it was like his life depended on it.

The scene changed. The war was over. Kiku, Feliciano, Gilbert, and Ludwig sat in the waiting room in the hall that the Nuremberg Trials were taking place. Ludwig cursed and slammed his fist down on the table, making Feliciano jump. “How could I  _ do that!?! _ ” he screamed, jumping up and slamming his fist into the wall, over and over, “How could I do that to  _ my own people!?! _ I let that horrible snake of a man twist me with his silver words and make me do all those terrible things!” Ludwig’s fist was bleeding now, and tears were streaming down his face. The rest of the Axis sprang toward him as Germany fell to his knees, sobbing and shaking. “I’m a  _ monster! _ ” he sobbed brokenly, and Gilbert and Feliciano hugged him tightly.

“ _ Nein _ , Ludwig, you’re not a monster,” Gilbert insisted.

Feliciano nodded vigorously, “You were only following orders! There was nothing you could have done!”

Ludwig continued to sob, saying, “But I should’ve done  _ something! _ I should have resisted, I should have fought back, but I let him make a fool of me, I let him into my  _ heart _ and  _ mind _ ,  _ unt  _ he twisted them until I couldn’t tell who I was anymore! I am nothing but a weak fool…”

“Ludwig…” Gilbert sighed, hugging his brother tighter as Feliciano started to cry in sympathy.

Suddenly, Ludwig stood up like a lightning bolt, throwing off his friends, and screamed at the top of his lungs, shouting, “DAMN YOU, ADOLF HITLER!! DAMN YOU TO HELL!!” With the last vestiges of his rage depleted, Ludwig slowly sank back down to his knees, crying silently. The Axis stared at each other, unsure of what they could do to help their beloved leader. Then Gilbert cried out in pain and clutched at his heart.

The scene shifted to a few rooms down the hall, where Alfred, Francis, Arthur, Yao, Ivan, Jett, and Matthew were sitting at a table, waiting for a verdict from their bosses. Soon, an aide came into the room, and announced, “The Allied Control Council has resolved to split the nation of Germany in two. Western Germany shall be under the occupation of France, Great Britain, and the United States of America. Eastern Germany shall be under the occupation of the Soviet Union. In addition, the Free State of Prussia shall be dissolved, effective immediately.”

While the other Allies nodded affirmatively, Matthew’s jaw dropped, he bolted out of the room, startling the aide, and tore down the hallway to the room where the Axis were waiting. He nearly kicked in the door, but when he got there, he saw Kiku in shock, Feliciano in tears, and poor Ludwig in a state of raw, unadulterated anguish. Gilbert was gone. Numbly, Matthew nodded slightly, left the room, entered the bathroom, closed himself in a stall, and removed the necklace bearing his dog tags, his locket, and his wedding ring. He opened the locket, which was an image of he and Gilbert standing in front of the same waterfall they were engaged at, exchanging their vows. Matthew took the ring of the chain and put it on his finger, then curled in on himself and sobbed silently, not daring to make a sound, lest he be found out. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he sniffled as silent, heart-shattering sobs racked his body. Gilbert was dead. His sweet, beloved Gilbert was dead. And it was all his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> אמא - "Mother" in Hebrew  
> in ordnung? - okay?
> 
> Are your hearts broken yet? Mine is.


	10. Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I felt like torturing the North American brothers, so here you go.

Before anyone could react, the scene changed once more to Matthew standing outside in the snowy city of North Battleford. North Battleford was known for its unusually high crime rate, so everyone was wondering what Matthew was doing standing in a dark alley in such a place. Francis gasped as he noticed Past Matthew’s puffy red eyes, and the dark bags underneath them, coupled with the frown tugging at the corners of his lips. Soon, a shady looking man in a trenchcoat came from the other end of the alley. “You the buyer?” he asked.

Matthew looked him in the eye, “Yes.”

The shady gentleman produced from the depths of his trenchcoat a small, white package, then held it out to Matthew, who motioned to take it. As soon as he did, though, the man retracted his hand, saying “Ah, ah, ah. No money, no Mary.”

Matthew sighed, saying “Of course,” and fished a fistful of dollars out of his coat pocket, “Will this be enough?”

The man smiled and took the money, handing over the package, “Pleasure doing business with you!” then he frowned as Matthew started to leave, “Hey, kid? You… sure about doin’ this? You’re not the usual type a guy I see ‘round here. This stuff’s no joke.”

“I’m perfectly aware of this drug’s… effects,” Matthew said coldly, barely stopping to spare the man another glance, “I’m counting on it.”

The scene fast-forwarded to Canada’s woodland estate, where he opened the package and produced from it a rolled joint. After lighting it, he took a long, deep drag, and as he sighed, the smoke flew from his lips. He sank to the floor in his kitchen, continuing to smoke the illegal marijuana, and his eyes dilated as his whole body relaxed. Then, strangely, he began to sing.

 

  | 

_Oh fare thee well my own true love,_

_Fare thee well my dear;_

_For the ship she's sailing and the wind blows free_

_And I am bound away to the sea, Mary Anne._  
  
---|---  
  | 

_Oh can't you see the turtle dove_

_Sitting on the stile,_

_She's mourning the loss of her own true love_

_As I do now for you, my sweet Mary Anne._  
  
  | 

_The lobster boiling in the pot,_

_The salt fish in the brook,_

_They're suffering long but it's nothing like_

_The ache that I feel for you, my sweet Mary Anne._  
  
  | 

_Oh if I had a flask of gin_

_And sugar enough for two_

_And a great bowl for to mix it in,_

_I’'d pour a drink for you, my sweet Mary Anne._

  


_Oh fare thee well my own true love,_

_Fare thee well my dear;_

_For the ship she's sailing and the wind blows free_

_And I am bound away to the sea…_

_Mary Anne._  
  
  


Matthew’s voice was hauntingly beautiful, and it struck the nations that they had never heard the Canadian sing before. His voice broke at the very last verse, and he broke down into sobs.

The present Allies stared at Past Matthew crying in the kitchen, their jaws wide open. “How did we not notice…?” Arthur asked.

“Oh, _Matthieu…_ ” Francis sighed.

Yao furrowed his brow unhappily. As much as he disliked Westerners, Canada was one of the few that acknowledged him as 'First to Fight' in World War II, and he had grown a little fond of the northern nation. To see him so distraught like this was... troubling.

Jett shook his head sadly, like he’d already known about this, but it was still painful to see it.

Alfred just stared at the scene silently, his lips tightly sealed, his eyes betraying no emotion. For a man that was normally so outgoing, this spoke volumes to how he was feeling, so Alexander worriedly put a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder. Alfred absentmindedly held his hand, but there was still nothing from the American. “I’m a terrible brother, aren’t I?” he asked them, and before they could all rush to comfort him, the memory started to shift out of focus, and the sounds of gunfire could be heard. There were bright flashes of color, but still nothing focused.

“What’s going on!?!” Arthur shouted over the noise, alarmed.

“I-I don’t know!” Romulus responded, staring wildly at the shifting images.

Finally, a clear image broke through, and the nations gasped as they saw Matthew and Alfred, in Washington DC. In 1814. Alfred was on the ground, coughing up blood and crying, while Matthew shoved a bayonet into his gut, shouting “YOU TORE OUR FAMILY APART!! I HATE YOU!!”

Then it disappeared into the storm. Another image appeared, this one of just Alfred, curled up in the snows of Valley Forge, stubbornly clinging to life. The nations heard his thoughts, and they heard Alfred’s voice saying, _Is this how it ends? Not even fighting? Alone, in the snow, with no one to comfort me as I die? I… I don’t want to go like this…_

Then it was gone, and another clear image broke through, this one of Alexander and Alfred brawling in the Senate Chamber. The two grappled with each other as the politicians looked on with panic, unsure of what they were supposed to do. Finally Alexander slammed his fist into Alfred’s jaw, stood up, and said, “From here on out, we are at war. From here on out, I have _no brother_.”

The scene was whisked away into the whirlwind of colors and emotions that surrounded the nations now. Yao gasped as he saw the next image. North Vietnam cradling the dead form of his brother, South Vietnam in his hands, while Alfred looked on in shock. “YOU MADE EVERYTHING WORSE!!” the Vietnamese personification shouted at him, “You Westerners, you always strut in and say you’ll make everything better, but look where that got you! And my brother believed in you! He believed in you, America, and YOU FAILED HIM!!”

  
Alfred, both past and present, fell to his knees, mumbling, “I only tried to help…” And the whirlwind intensified. Alfred covered his ears childishly, as if trying to block out the sound, while all of his friends tried to shout at him to stop, to make it _stop_ , that _he_ was doing this, until finally, finally, everything fell eerily silent. The nations stared in shock at an empty warehouse, where they saw Gilbert, broken, bleeding, and in chains. Matthew gasped, and Gilbert winced. This was not a particularly pleasant memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is an old Canadian folk song titled "True Lover's Farewell", this version is "Mary Anne" by Spiers and Boden. Here's a link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8qwTnkZrkJo
> 
> Ah... I love the smell of broken hearts in the morning...


	11. In the Heat of the Cold War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred and Ivan have a secret, one they've kept secret since 1949. Now, it's about to come out...

As Past Gilbert sat there, chained up and bleeding, two doors opened at the same time, at opposite ends of the warehouse. On the West side, Alfred walked in, but something was off about him. He was smiling, but it wasn’t the same oblivious grin he usually wore. His lips were thin and his expression cold and cruel, like something that would be expected of Russia. Behind his blue eyes, intelligence flared like no one had ever noticed before. On the East side, Ivan himself walked in, but he was also off. He _wasn’t_ smiling. His face was totally blank, betraying no emotion whatsoever. The two barely registered Gilbert as they walked toward each other, striding forward with a purpose in their step, quickly crossing the empty floor of the warehouse.

“ _Привет,_ Ivan,” Alfred said, “Thank you for meeting me again.” His voice sounded different, less childish, more calculating. Like a Bond villain.

Ivan inclined his head, saying, “Hello, Amerika. I trust it is the same arrangement as last time?”

Alfred nodded. Silently, he began to take off his bomber jacket and dress uniform, and Ivan removed his overcoat.

Georgia blushed violently, saying “Please, don’t tell me their about to do what I think they are…”

With outermost layers discarded, it was revealed that the two were wearing all sorts of weapon holsters at all times underneath their clothes. “Are you prepared, Capitalist Pig?” Ivan asked, his hand drifting toward a knife on his belt.

“Come at me, Ruskie,” Alfred growled, both hands hovering over pistols. The seconds ticked by. The tension in the air was so thick you could cut it.

Finally, both men drew their weapons. Alfred fired and Ivan ducked, jabbing upward with his knife, but Alfred dodged and spun to his back, kicking at the Russian’s exposed abdomen. Ivan grunted and slammed his knife down into Alfred’s leg, which gave the American an opportunity to shoot his foe in the arm. Both howled and stumbled away from each other, but Alfred, using his superior range, started firing potshots at the Russian, who rolled to the ground to avoid being hit. He leapt toward America with his trademark metal pipe, then grabbed Alfred’s right arm, pulled it away from his body, and slammed the pipe down, making the bone snap to an unnatural angle. Alfred screamed in pain, then devolved into hysterical laughter.

Gilbert watched all this with abject horror, watching the two superpowers duke it out in a no-holds-barred fight to the death. This was the exact opposite of what was happening between the two nations in the outside world, which was a continuous and unending game of cat and mouse, seeing how far they could go before plunging the world into nuclear hellfire.

The fight was brutal and sadistic, neither man gaining the upper hand, until they were both so broken and battered that they couldn’t even lift their arms to pull the trigger anymore. Worse still, they were _laughing._ They were both laughing, even as Ivan had a rib sticking out of his chest, and as Alfred could bend his elbow the wrong way, they _laughed._ Ivan smiled, saying, “Thank you for agreeing to my proposal, Mr. Amerika. This has helped a lot of the frustration you and I have built up over the decades.”

Alfred laughed, “Totally! I feel _so_ much better. Like, out there, I just, I _need_ to snap your neck, you know? But if I did, the world would end. In here, though, I can just do it! Honestly, even getting the crap beaten out of me is better than the verbal chess match that we call politics nowadays.”

“Da, da, I feel the same way!” Ivan agreed cheerfully, then Gilbert finally spoke up.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU TWO!?!” he screamed, straining against his chains. Ivan and Alfred looked over at him as if they’d just noticed he was there. Then, looking down at each other, they realized they weren’t really in a condition to hold conversation.

“Gimme a sec,” Alfred said, and he raised his pistol to his temple, pulling the trigger. Ivan only grunted and slit his wrist with a jackknife, and the two slipped into oblivion together. Their wounds healed and they both sat up gasping, and Alfred groaned as he sank back to the floor. “Ugh, I forgot, dying _sucks!_ ” he moaned as he massaged his aching arm.

“Da, it is not pleasant,” Ivan agreed, rolling his shoulder and wincing.

Gilbert stared at them. “I… I don’t _understand_ …” Gilbert said brokenly, “I… I shouldn’t be _alive_ … the trials…”

Alfred and Ivan stood and walked over to him. “I’m not really sure about that myself…” Alfred frowned, leaning in to inspect him.

Ivan smiled as he explained, “Perhaps the ideals of Prussia were too strong to immediately vanquish, da? Besides, you were never really a conventional personification in the first place, ‘army with a state’.”

Alfred nodded as if this explained everything, “That makes sense,” he said, “I guess now you’re just kinda… here. Maybe the whole East/West Germany thing is what’s keeping you around?”

“That could be it,” Ivan agreed.

Gilbert stared at them, “Weren’t you two at each other’s throats a moment ago?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Alfred waved his hand dismissively, “I still totally think he’s demonspawn, but it doesn’t mean we can’t still maintain a professional relationship.” Ivan nodded, smiling sweetly.

“But, I watched you,” Gilbert insisted, “You mutilated each other!”

Ivan smiled more intensely, “That was just working out some issues, da?”

Alfred nodded, but his expression was more serious. “You don’t know what it’s like Gilbert,” he said, “In the old days, if you didn’t like someone, you could go to war and be done with it. Now, though, we have the atom bomb. If I attack Ivan with nukes, he attacks me with nukes, and pretty soon, everyone else starts getting pulled in, and the world goes down in a blaze of nuclear hellfire. You don’t know what it’s like, to hate someone, so, _so_ much, and not be able to do anything about it.”

“So one day, I got a call from Mr. Amerika,” Ivan continued, “And he vented his frustrations to me, figuring I was the only one that understood. And, ironically, I did, so I proposed he meet me here in this warehouse, alone, and heavily armed!”

“See, there’s one perk to being immortal,” Alfred supplemented, holding up a single finger for emphasis, “You can’t die!”

Despite his deplorable condition, Gilbert managed a dry smile, “That’s the entire premise of being immortal, Alfred.”

“I know, right? It’s super cool!” Alfred said excitedly, oblivious to the burn he’d just recieved, “So Ivan comes to me, and he says ‘Look, we all know you and I hate each other, but if we went to war, the world would be destroyed.’ And I was all like, ‘Yeah, dude, that’s why I called you!’ and he was like ‘Da, so why not we just fight each other here, in private, no politics involved?’” America did a perfect imitation of a Russian accent, and Ivan smiled.

Gilbert stared, “So you’ve just been coming here to kill each other?”

“Yup,” Alfred nodded.

“Da,” Ivan agreed.

“We call it ‘Homicide Therapy’,” Alfred said.

Gilbert looked from one man to another. “You two are insane,” he decided.

“Maybe, Prussia,” Alfred agreed, becoming unnervingly solemn once more, “But being insane is better than nothing.”

Gilbert bowed his head. “So…” he started after a pause, “You, ah… you think you could unchain me?”

“Sure!” Alfred said readily, moving to take off Gilbert’s shackles, when Russia grabbed his arm.

The purple aura appeared, and the temperature dropped. “I would not do that, if I were you,” he said, still smiling all the while, “As per our agreement, East Germany is my property, da? As much as I like you, Amerika, I _will_ go to war over my property. Leave my property alone.”

Alfred’s expression melted into a grim mask. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Commie,” he growled, his eyes sparking with intelligence once more.

They stared each other down. “The White House,” Ivan said.

“Catherine Palace,” Alfred countered.

“The Hoover Dam,” Ivan responded.

“Lenin’s Mausoleum.”

“The Washington Monument.”

“Saint Basil’s Cathedral.”

“The Lincoln Memorial.”

“The Winter Palace.”

“The Capitol Building.”

“The Kremlin.”

“The Pentagon.”

“Red Square!”

“The Statue of Liberty.”

Alfred scowled, then stepped back from Gilbert. “Hey, hey, what the Hell was that!?!” Gilbert demanded.

“Sorry, General,” Alfred said, starting to walk away, “There’s nothing I can do. I can’t lose Liberty.”

“Alfred!” Gilbert pleaded, but Alfred simply put his jacket back on and headed out the door. “ALFRED!!” Gilbert cried once more, but the American was gone. Gilbert shivered as Ivan laughed.

“Do not worry, friend,” Ivan said, “You will not need to worry about the Capitalist Pig anymore. Now, do you remember when you were still the Teutonic Knights, all those times you would hunt me in the woods?”

Gilbert’s eyes went wide. “ _Es tut mir leid!_ ” he cried shrilly, his voice rising in fear, “ _Bitte, verschone mein leben!_ ”

  
“ _Отлично_ , you remember!” Ivan laughed. He raised his pipe, and the memory went dark with the sound of Gilbert screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought it was going to be RusAme, didn't you?
> 
> "Привет" - "Hello" in Russian  
> "Es tut mir leid!" - "I'm sorry!" in German  
> "Bitte, verschone mein leben!" - "Please, spare my life!" in German  
> "Отлично" - "Excellent" in Russian
> 
> This chapter was supposed to be a mix of humor and severity, just like the Cold War. It was really a task balancing it all out, so please let me know if I pulled it off!


	12. I'm Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James has a secret. Romulus has a secret. Alexander has a secret. They're sorry.

Finally, the nations were back in the conference room, still in their seats, the book sitting open on the page in front of them. Curious, Pennsylvania peeked at how far into the book they were, then groaned as she saw they were only past the second page. Matthew, meanwhile, took Ivan and Alfred by the ear, leading them away from the group and out into the hall. Todd stood up nervously, but Leilani pulled him back into his chair. “Best let Matthew be on this one, Allie,” she said, her normally breezy voice hard as flint, “He deserves some time alone with those two.”

The nations and states waited in silence, Maryland, Francis, and Romulus shamelessly listening by the door. They started hearing faint whispering in Matthew’s voice, and Maryland’s face went bright red as she put a hand to her mouth in shock, Francis stifled laughter, and Romulus looked horrified. They returned to their seats before Matthew smilingly lead the two offenders back in, both looked very troubled and unnaturally pale. 

Alexander strode forward to comfort his brother, asking “You alright?”

Alfred whimpered and cast a fearful glance in Matthew’s direction, who was still smiling brightly. The American took his brother by the shoulders, looked him dead in the eye, and whispered, “He threatened to cut my dick off and feed it to a moose!” Alexander waited one second, then two, then burst out laughing.

Alfred moaned as Alexander laughed, so hard that the Southerner was actually rolling on the floor. “Oh, my God, that’s amazing!” he cried, wiping his eyes, “Oh, Matthew, you are the  _ greatest! _ ”

Matthew flushed, pleased, “I do my best.”

Yao looked at Ivan, “That explains the Capitalist, but what did he say to you, aru?”

Ivan shuddered, “He said he would skewer me with my pipe and stand me up like tree for beavers to eat!” This lead to a new round of laughter from the group, and Ivan and Alfred blushed.

Gilbert stared at his husband. “How many times have I reminded myself not to get on your bad side, again?” he asked.

“Several, dear,” Matthew answered, patting his arm patronizingly.

“I think that is enough for today,  _ ita? _ ” Romulus huffed, still appalled at Matthew’s threats to Alfred’s manhood. There were certain things you didn’t mess with.

Arthur nodded vigorously, “I think that’s all the revelations we can take for one day!” 

Several of the states gave a hearty “Hear, hear!” They’d learned far too much of their father to still be comfortable. 

“Then let us break for the night, yes?” Francis asked, and the nations started to get up and leave.

As they went out into the hall, Tennessee approached Texas, asking, “Hey, Noah, you wanna get something to eat together?”

“I appreciate the offer, James,” Texas answered, “But I’ve got somethin’ I gotta do alone, understand?”

James tried very hard not to look crestfallen. “R-right, yeah, maybe next time, man,” he said. Texas smiled and walked off, slinging his guitar over his shoulder.

Adelaide and Suzanne comforted their brother. “You’ll get ‘im next time, Tenny,” Louisiana said, patting his shoulder sadly.

Tennessee chuckled, “Is it really that obvious?”

“Broadside of a barn could hide better, dear,” Georgia admitted apologetically.

“Heh…” James sighed, “I just wish, that once, just once, he could move past her, y’know? Stop seeing me as just a friend…”

“You just gotta keep trying, dear,” Suzanne implored him, “Tex is just a little slow on the uptake.”

Adelaide snorted, “ _ Oui _ , you’ve got that right!”

James tried for a smile, then left his sisters to go find himself a room. On his way through, he felt a strong blaze of heat, and he turned to look down a hallway. His eyes widened as he saw Romulus kneeling in the hallway in tears, his cape flowing out behind him, while the figures of two men stood in ghostly fire in front of him. One was a tall, stern looking blonde with long hair. His armor looked archaic, made from bear skins and the like, and he held a crude spear in his hands, broken just short at the butt. The other was slightly shorter, with flowing burgundy hair that fell around his shoulders. His armor looked fastened from Greek bronze, and his circular shield had a large, deep crack in it. “ _ Paenitet, paenitet, paenitet! _ ” Rome kept crying, sobbing into his hands, not daring to look up at the men glowering down at him.

“You failed me, Rome,” the blonde said, “I’m glad I killed you.”

“How could you leave me alone!?” the younger man demanded, “I needed you! And you left me to those savages in the East! I needed your strength,  _ Pater _ , and you weren’t there!”

Rome sobbed and sobbed, holding his head like he was trying to block out their words. A third figure shimmered in the flames, a dark skinned man with a dark red cape and dark bronze armor, holding a short sword in his hands. “You killed me, Rome,” the newcomer said accusingly, and blood started to leak from the corner of his mouth. Then, the blonde man staggered as his bearskin armor began to be stained red around his chest, and the burgundy haired one’s shield broke completely, and he feebly clutched at his heart and blood poured from his chest. 

“I hated you!”

“I loved you!”

“I needed you!”

“Romulus!” Tennessee finally shouted, running forward to help the ancient nation. In a flash, the fire, and the three men in it, vanished, and Romulus seemed to register James’s presence for the first time.

“Ah, T-Tennessee?” the Ancient asked, quickly wiping the tears from his eyes, “What did you need?”

James ignored him. “Are you alright, sir?” he asked, “What was that?”

Rome’s features hardened. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You will speak of this to no one,” he ordered, standing up to his full height, which towered over Tennessee.

When he was mad, Rome was absolutely  _ terrifying. _ Real fire burned in his eyes, his remaining fist clenched in rage, and his spear and shield started shimmering into existence in his hands. James couldn’t help it. He was the Volunteer State, he was generous, sure, but he wasn’t made of stone. “Right, of course,” he stammered, sweat trickling down the back of his neck as he eyed Romulus’s spear, “Will do, boss. I-I mean,  _ Imperator _ .”

Rome huffed and tilted his head. “This is the part where you run away,” he informed the state, and Tennessee took off like a rocket, booking it down the hallway at breakneck speeds. 

Sighing, Romulus let the illusion fall, and his weapons disappeared. He started to feel a warm liquid on his upper lip, and patted it with his fingers, only to find blood. “Ah,  _ Iulius _ ,” he muttered to himself, turning and walking down the hallway, holding his nose, “You’ve got to stop overdoing it with the theatrics…”

A few rooms down the hall, Alexander pulled his shirt off, preparing for bed. He looked at himself in the mirror, and at the whip scars marring his back. He touched one, and pain flared through his body as the memory came back to him. A wicked overseer in Alabama, killed six slaves in 1862. Slowly, with a whip. Gasping, Alexander realized he was on his knees, tears dripping off his nose and onto the tile floor. Still crying, he pulled himself up on the bathroom counter, then flicked open his straight razor. Raising it to his shoulder, he made the first cut, muttering, “I’m sorry,” then another, “I’m sorry,” another, “I’m sorry,” And so it went until six new lines of blood graced his skin, and Alexander washed his razor off in the sink, then looked at himself in the mirror again. Little lines marked his skin, all the way up his arm, some on his chest, a few on his legs. He hung his head in shame. General Lee had tried to help him. Stonewall had tried to help him. But there was no escaping it. There were scars on Alexander’s back, and they weren’t just from whips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Paenitet" - "I'm sorry" in Latin
> 
> It started happy, but it ended sad. Sorry. I came up with Texassee on a whim, and now I'm in love with it, so I'm giving it to you now. Do what you will. Also, have fun guessing which was which in the flame sequence, there, I'm not telling... ;)


	13. Next Time, on "Redemption"...

Texas sighed as he took out his guitar. After a bit of tuning, he sat on the roof of the conference building and started to play.

 

In the southern part of Texas

In the town of San Antone

There's a fortress all in ruins that the weeds have overgrown

You may look in vain for crosses and you'll never see a-one

But sometimes between the setting and the rising of the sun

You can hear a ghostly bugle

As the men go marching by

You can hear them as they answer

To that roll call in the sky.

Colonel Travis, Davy Crockett, and a hundred eighty more

Captain Dickinson, Jim Bowie

Present and accounted for.

 

Back in 1836, Houston said to Travis

"Get some volunteers and go

Fortify the Alamo."

Well the men came from Texas

And from old Tennessee

And they joined up with Travis

Just to fight for the right to be free.

 

Indian scouts with squirrel guns

Men with muzzle-loaders

Stood together, heel and toe

To defend the Alamo.

"You may ne'er see your loved ones, "

Travis told them that day

"Those who want to can leave now

Those who fight to the death let 'em stay."

 

In the sand he drew a line

With his army sabre

Out of a hundred eighty five

Not a soldier crossed the line

 

With his banners a-dancin'

In the dawn's golden light

Santa Anna came prancing

On a horse that was black as the night.

 

Sent an officer to tell

Travis to surrender

Travis answered with a shell

And a rousing Rebel Yell

 

Santa Anna turned scarlet

"Play deguello!" he roared

"I will show them no quarter

Everyone shall be put to the sword!"

 

One hundred and eighty five

Holding back five thousand

Five days, six days, eight days, ten

Travis held and held again

Then he sent for replacements

For his wounded and lame

But the troops that were coming

Never came, never came, never came…

 

Twice he charged and blew recall

On the fatal third time

Santa Anna breached the wall

And he slew 'em, one and all

Now the bugles are silent

And there's rust on each sword

And the small band of soldiers...

Lie asleep in the arms of the Lord…

 

In the southern part of Texas

Near the town of San Antone

Like a statue on his pinto rides a cowboy all alone

And he sees the cattle grazing where a century before

Santa Anna's guns were blazing and the cannons used to roar

And his eyes turn sorta misty

And his heart begins to glow

And he takes his hat off slowly...

To the men of Alamo.

To the thirteen days of glory

At the siege of Alamo...

  
Noah finished the riff of the  _ Ballad of the Alamo _ , then started packing up his guitar. He hoped that somewhere, within the depths of the conference building, Rosa Ramirez was cursing up a storm at him. With that happy thought in his head, Noah made his way back to his room, trying to keep all thoughts of his Yellow Rose out of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is "The Ballad of the Alamo" by Marty Robbins. See you guys soon!


	14. What is a Daisy, If Not Just a Yellow Rose?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nations begin to delve into the life of Texas, and his struggle to gain his independence from Mexico...

The next day, the nations gathered in the conference room once more. Several were casting Texas some sidelong glances. Everyone had heard Noah’s midnight serenade, and everyone had caught the not-so-hidden meaning. Rosa was fuming, she had bags under her eyes, as if she had lost sleep, and she was muttering in Spanish. Judging from Antonio’s expression, they were not very kind words about the wayward Texan. Tennessee looked suitably uncomfortable, glancing between Noah and Romulus, of all people, and near constantly rubbing the back of his neck nervously. Finally, Ludwig stood at the front of the room, the book open in front of him. “Shall we begin?” he asked the group, and there was a less-than-excited murmur of consent. Taking a deep breath, and trying not to let his hands shake, Ludwig flipped the page.

The nations found themselves in a desert, a few cacti and stringy shrubs clawing their way through the sand. A little ways off, a small town stood in the sand, quaint and quiet, save for one cannon pointed outward. On the other side of the sand, a small military camp with the Mexican flag was pitched, and a nervous officer paced back and forth, looking at the town. Soon, from the town’s church tower, a white flag was raised, and the Mexican officer cheered in exuberance, then one of his soldiers took out a pair of binoculars, then called him over. 

Rosa screeched and stomped off, and Noah snickered as he realized where they were. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I welcome you to Gonzales,” he said, gesturing to the town, “The first battle of the Texan Revolution.”

James nodded in recognition, and Antonio gave a soft “ah!” as he realized. Alfred and Alexander looked grim, and there came a cry of indignation from the Mexican camp. The officer threw down his binoculars in rage and pointed at the white flag, calling to his soldiers.

“What are they so mad about?” Arthur asked, watching the soldier run about to gather weapons, “Didn’t they want Gonzales to surrender?”

“Oh, we didn’t surrender,” Noah grinned devilishly, “Take a closer look at the flag.”

The nations squinted, reading the black markings on the flag. Being the first one to get it, Scotland started to laugh. “Reminds me of all those times you an’ me used to fight, Artie!” he grinned, gesturing to the flag.

England harrumphed, muttering, “While I admire your tenacity, Texas, your methods are rather uncouth…”

“What? What does it say?” Italy whined, trying to see around Germany’s head.

Noah smiled at the Italian, “It’s got a picture of that there cannon, and an inscription saying ‘Come and take it’!”

Feliciano’s eyes widened, and he smiled. Turkey started laughing, saying, “Ah, reminds me of the old days, eh, Italy?”

Feliciano laughed, too, saying, “Yeah! You Texans sure know how to rebel!”

Antonio smiled warmly, “I’d expect no less from a former colony of mine!” His smile disappeared when both Noah and Rosa glared at him.

“ _ Tejas _ was  _ my _ territory,  _ Espana _ ,” Rosa growled.

“I don’t belong to nobody,  _ conquistador _ ” Noah snarled right after. Then, the two glared at each other. Rosa’s hands drifted toward a knife on her belt, and Noah started reaching for the Colt .45 he always kept at his hip. Before the two could draw and shoot, however, there was a loud boom as Gonzales fired its cannon. The Mexicans screamed and jumped out of the way as the shot struck their camp, and the officer tore his hat in rage.

From Gonzales, a cheer of “COME AND TAKE IT!! COME AND TAKE IT!!” could be heard ringing through the streets. There was a gathering of the town’s fighting men in the main street. It consisted of a few hunters with outdated rifles, old men with Winchesters, and a bunch of farmhands wielding pitchforks. At the front of the group, with his arms crossed in defiance, sneering at the fleeing Mexicans, a younger Noah Jones stood, defending his town. 

“Get out of here,  _ Mexicano _ bastards!” Noah shouted across the sands, “And tell that damn  _ caudio _ Santa Anna that if he wants this cannon, he can come to Gonzales himself and TAKE IT FROM ME!”

The Gonzales Cannon fired again, and still in an apoplectic rage, the Mexican officer called for a retreat. With a triumphant cheer from the townspeople of Gonzales, the scene changed to a familiar fortress in the sand, except this wasn’t the famous shining moment of the Alamo. This was simply a peaceful scene of San Antonio, on a sunny day. Past Noah was strolling through the streets, coming up to a yellow painted house, large and probably owned by a wealthy man. Noah hopped up the stairs with a spring in his step, and used the bronze knocker. There was a bustle in the house, and an elderly gentleman opened the pale white door, and upon seeing Noah, shook his head fondly. “She’s working in the back, m’boy,” the man said immediately, and Noah grinned.

“Thank you kindly, sir!” he responded cheerily, before skipping off the steps and pulling out his guitar.

“What were you so giddy about, Tex? Got a  _ girlfriend? _ ” New Jersey nudged him with her elbow playfully. All the Southern states stared daggers at her, and Noah glowered at her.

“Yes,” he said, “She was the love of my life.”

Past Noah rounded the corner, and began to strum. There was a squeal of delight, and a dark-skinned slave girl with a faded yellow dress ran to the gates eagerly, all chores forgotten at the arrival of her love. 

“Ah…” both Noahs sighed at the same time, Past gratefully, Present wistfully with an undertone of pain, “My Yellow Rose…”

New Jersey’s taunts died in her throat as a tear rolled down Noah’s face. Louisiana put a hand on her adopted brother’s shoulder, and Noah quickly wiped his eyes. “I’m alright,” he insisted, “I just… it’s hard, seeing her again.”

“And who is this delightful  _ mademoiselle _ ?” Francis asked, oblivious to Noah’s pain.

Past Noah answered Francis’s question, and said, “Ah, Ms. Daisy Abbott, you truly are the greatest rose of color this soldier ever knew. How about a kiss for me?” he gazed into her crystalline blue eyes, grinning mischievously, and Daisy blushed and swatted his arm.

“Noah Jones!” she exclaimed, fanning herself with a worn folding fan, “I’d never’ve though you to be such a forward man!”

Noah laughed and continued lazily strumming his guitar, “I can’t help it, Ms. Abbot. You bring out the worst in me.”

Present Noah sighed as he saw the fan. “I bought her that fan…” he said forlornly, “With my last dime. She loved it, ‘cause it made her feel like a noble lady.” North Carolina patted his shoulder, staying silent.

Daisy scoffed in mock offense, then broke into joyful laughter as she threw her arms around Past Noah’s neck. She gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek, and Noah turned bright red. “There,” she said, pulling away from him and using the worn fan to hide her blush, “Happy now?”

Noah paused his playing to cup a hand to his cheek in awe. Then, his eyes lit up with delight, “Yes, ma’am!” he exclaimed, “I promise, Ms. Abbott, once I work up the money, I’ll buy you from that Old Mr. Abbott and free you! Then you an’ I can live happily ever after!”

“Oh,  _ really? _ ” Daisy raised a sarcastic brow, “And how do you intend to get that money today, Mr. Jones?”

Noah grinned, “I promise you, Ms. Abbott! I’ll get that money in no time at all, and all honest like, too!”

Daisy rolled her eyes, “Well, now you’ve kept me in suspense, Mr. Jones! Tell me, how will you get that money?”

“The Mexicans just marched on Gonzales,” Noah explained, “I’ve signed up with Houston’s Texan Army. I’m a real, Honest to God soldier now!”

“Oh,  _ Noah _ , that’s wonderful!” Daisy cried, flinging her arms around him once more, “You really will make up that money in no time, being a soldier!”

“Yes ma’am,” Noah bragged, “And even if I ain’t got enough by the end of the war? There’s talk of us joining the United States! It’s easy to get work there!”

Alexander chuckled, “Why, it’s a genuine Southern love story!” he exclaimed, overjoyed at the sight before him.

Tex laughed humorlessly, “Sure, if you like the ending of  _ Romeo and Juliet _ , maybe…”

Meanwhile, Daisy fanned herself once more with the old, worn fan she held, giggling at Noah as he struck up the guitar once more. From the house, Old Mr. Abbott, being the elderly gentleman from before, stuck his head out the back door. “Oh, lovebirds!” he called teasingly, “I don’t mind your being together, but if he’s truly to take you off my hands, darlin’, I want all the work I can get outta you beforehand!”

Daisy turned red and immediately removed herself from the picket fence, curtseying to her master, and called, “Dreadfully sorry, Master Abbott! I’ll get back to the gardening right away!”

“Thank you, m’dear!” Old Mr. Abbott called back, “And dinner’ll be soon! Bring that boy o’yours inside if he ain’t got a place to stay!”

“Yessir!” Daisy responded.

“Thank you, sir!” Noah chimed in, then turned to Daisy, “Go on back to your chores, darlin’. I’ll serenade you while you work.”

Daisy giggled and fanned herself once more, and Noah changed the tune he was playing on his guitar, and began to sing:

 

_ There's a yellow rose of Texas _

_ That I am going to see _

_ No other soldier knows her _

_ No other, only me _

_ She cried so when I left her _

_ It like to broke my heart _

_ And if I ever find her _

_ We never more will part _

 

_ She's the sweetest rose of color _

_ This soldier ever knew _

_ Her eyes are bright as diamonds _

_ They sparkle like the dew _

_ You may talk about your dearest May _

_ And sing of Rosa Lee _

_ But the Yellow Rose of Texas _

_ Beats the girls of Tennessee! _

 

_ Where the Rio Grande is flowing _

_ And the starry skies are bright _

_ She walks along the river _

_ In the quiet summer night _

_ She thinks if I remember _

_ When we parted long ago _

_ I promised to come back again _

_ And never leave her so! _

 

_ Oh now I'm going to find her _

_ For my heart is full of woe _

_ And we'll sing the song together _

_ That we sang so long ago _

_ We'll play the banjo gaily _

_ And we'll sing the song of yore _

_ And the Yellow Rose of Texas _

_ Shall be mine forever more! _

 

_ She's the sweetest rose of color _

_ This soldier ever knew _

_ Her eyes are bright as diamonds _

_ They sparkle like the dew _

_ You may talk about your dearest May _

_ And sing of Rosa Lee _

_ But the Yellow Rose of Texas _

_ Beats the girls of Tennessee~! _

 

Daisy laughed while she worked in the garden and Noah sang his heart out, smiling all the while. Almost all the nations “awwww”ed. 

“That’s m’boy!’ Alexander cried.

“Such true love!” Francis swooned.

“Like the stories of old!” Romulus sighed.

“Such romance!” Leilani cooed.

“A truly chivalrous love!” Arthur agreed.

“The only thing missing is the wine and candlelight!” Feliciano smiled.

“She’s definitely a keeper, Texas, my man!” Alfred laughed, clapping Noah on the back.

Noah grimaced. “If only it were up to me to make her stay…” he whispered to himself. No one heard him.

Strangely, Tennessee, Louisiana, and Georgia were nowhere to be found. James had run off after the song’s first chorus, and only Suzanne and Adelaide had seen him go. They chased the young Southerner through the streets of San Antonio, losing him in the crowd, until finally, they found him behind a wooden barn, his head in his hands, and hot, angry tears rolling down his cheeks. Suzanne sighed at the state her brother was in, and sat beside him daintily, as a Southern lady should. Legs out to the side, hands perfectly folded on her lap. Adelaide, meanwhile, sat down heavily next to her brother, one arm propped up on her leg, legs wide open. Luckily, she was wearing pants. James only hummed to acknowledge them.

Growling, James stood up and slammed his foot into the wood of the barn, shouting, “IT’S NOT FAIR!” he kicked the wood again and again, his sisters watching him impassively. “She makes it seem so damn easy!” he shouted at the wall, which now had a boot-sized hole in it, “Meanwhile, I’ve worked so hard! So fucking hard, since the day I met him, and he just thinks we’re fucking FRIENDS! WHY DOES SHE GET HIM SO EASILY!?!” 

Suzanne sighed. “You’ve got to remember, James,” she said imploringly, taking her brother by the wrist and pulling him down to sit between the two sisters, “That was Tex before the Alamo. We only got to know him afterward, after he lost everything he ever had. That sorta thing changes a man, you know?”

“Beside, Tenny,” Louisiana chimed in, “You’ve gotta admit. That Daisy was a hell of a woman.”

“So you’re saying I don’t even have a shot?” James asked miserably, and Adelaide vigorously shook her head.

“Now that ain’t what I meant, James Jones, and you know it!” she scolded him, “I mean, you gotta stop trying to measure yourself up to her! Be your own man, and just tell him how you feel!”

“Yeah, right!” Tennessee scoffed, “I can’t do that yet! I say something like that too early, he’ll hate me forever! As much as I hate being just a friend, I’d never be able to bear it if we were enemies…”

“Oh,  _ James _ ,” Suzanne huffed pityingly, “What are we gonna do about that bleedin’ heart o’ yours?”

“Cut it out?” James suggested bitterly, “It hurts.”

“Well, it’s  _ always _ gonna hurt, Tenn,” Adelaide sighed, standing up and brushing off her pants, “You’ve just gotta push through the pain until you’ve got someone to bear it with.”

With that, she helped her sister up, and they walked back to the group, leaving Tennessee to his thoughts. “Damn it all, Noah Jones,” he muttered into his knees as he curled up against the barn, “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo-ee, that was a long one! Sorry that was so long, couldn't find a good place to end it. So who's up for some good old-fashioned unrequited love? 'Cause that's what Texassee is. The song is an old Southern folk song called, you guessed it, "The Yellow Rose of Texas", as performed by Bobby Horton, feel free to look it up and give it a listen. Please, leave comments!


	15. Beginning of the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to fall in place for the defenders of the Alamo

The scene changed. This time, the nations stood outside the famous Alamo, where about a hundred men stood at attention. Pacing up and down the line was an officer in a blue jacket, and a few junior officers standing off to the side, including Noah, who was the youngest of the men assembled. “Now men,” the senior officer started, “General Houston has sent me a letter, in which he has ordered us to scuttle the Alamo and remove from it all weapons and facilities. This allows Santa Anna to seize San Antonio de Bexar, and in doing so, we would empower the Mexicans with a base of operations from which to complete their march to the Sabine River. I will not lie to you. We do not have enough oxen, nor enough manpower, to effectively evacuate the weapons. If we left, we would be leaving too much behind. If we stayed, I’ve heard some reports that Santa Anna is marching as many as 3,000 soldiers here. So, I’m asking you: What would you have me do?” A young soldier raised his hand. “Yes, Bonham?” the officer asked.

“No disrespect to General Houston, sir,” he said nervously, “But you said it yourself. San Antonio’s too important. If Santa Anna takes it, he takes Texas.” The soldiers murmured uneasily. “And I don’t know about the rest of y’all, but I say, since we can’t even retreat properly, we dig in and give Santa Anna the fight of his life. We can try’n put a dent in his forces before he reaches General Houston’s army, and we might have a chance.” The soldiers shifted.

“Well said, Bonham,” the officer acknowledged, “Well said. And what of the rest of you?”

The soldiers looked at each other. “Well, don’t seem we’ve truly got a choice, after that,” one sighed ruefully, “We're goin’ with Bonham’s plan, sir.”

“Bonham!” another group shouted.

“Bonham’s plan,” affirmed the final group.

The officer smiled. “Thank you, men. Thank you. Bonham! It’s your plan; draft a letter of resolution to General Houston. We’re staying here, and we’re defending the Alamo to our last dying breaths!” The men cheered, and the scene changed to an adobe clay room, faded and cracked paint peeling off the walls. Tired, dirty, and scared soldiers huddled in the room, and loud coughing could be heard in the next room over. A man appeared in the doorway, an officer of some kind, with a sword and pistol at his hip. “Colonel Travis…” Noah breathed as the man rubbed his hands together.

“Men, can I have your attention?” he called into the room, and the Texans fell silent, listening. “Thank you,” Travis’ breath shuddered in his throat, “I regret to inform you that Commander Bowie has fallen ill.” A loud groan rose from the soldiers, despairing as they learned that their beloved commander was unwell. “As such, I am your commanding officer,” he continued, and a few of the volunteers groaned louder. 

Then, there was a hacking cough from around the corner, and a doctor crying out in indignation, “Sir, please, stay in bed!”

Leaning on a crutch, red in the face, and holding a slightly bloody napkin, Jim Bowie appeared in the doorway, and the nations realized with a jolt that this was the same proud officer from the previous vision. How sickness had taken him. “Listen up, men!” he shouted, then devolved into a fit of coughing. The men fell reverently silent, and Bowie got a hold of himself, “Now, you listen,- _ cough! _ \- this guy, - _ cough! _ \- this guy knows what he’s doin’. You,- you all listen to him! He’ll get you through this, I - _ cough! _ \- I promise. You all listen to him, that’s - _ cough! _ \- that’s an order, from your commander!  _ Cough!, cough!, cough!-- _ ” Bowie devolved into a harsh fit of coughing, and took his kerchief away from his mouth to discover yet more blood.

“Please, sir, let’s away,” the doctor insisted, “You need your rest!” Bowie coughed in response and allowed the flustered doctor to lead him back to his cot.

“We’re going to die here, aren’t we, sir?” one of the younger officers asked after a heavy silence.

Travis looked him in the eye, “Yes, Dickinson, I think we might.”

No more men complained after that. Everything was eerily silent, and a single soldier coughed once. Travis rubbed his hands together once more, then left the room to make more preparations. “So this is what it was like?” Georgia asked, breaking the silence.

“Yes,” Noah answered, pointing to himself sitting in the corner, gripping a rifle in his hands like his life depended on it, “People called us brave, and I suppose we were. But we were also afraid. So, so afraid.”

Arthur nodded sagely, quoting “‘Courage is not the absence of fear, but the act in spite of it.’ Nelson Mandela. You were very brave, Texas. I know a certain prime minister of mine that would be quite proud of your actions.”

Noah smiled bashfully and rubbed at the back of his neck. Rosa said nothing. The scene changed, and the nations were now outside, standing on the battlements of the Alamo. In the distance, a column of about thirty men marched across the sand, and James beamed as he realized what this moment was. The Tennesseeans, led by famous frontiersman Davy Crockett and thirty strong, marched up to the Alamo. “Hello, down there!” Travis called from the battlements, Past Noah and Captain Dickinson by his side as the senior officers. Noah looked much more recognizable now, grim and determined, but his face was still boyish, young and hopeful. He was wearing a woven tan poncho over his uniform, a wide brimmed fedora hid his brown hair, and a rifle was slung across his back. Dickinson was wearing the standard uniform of a Texan officer, with a faded blue waistcoat and a sword and pistol at his belt. Travis was wearing the same uniform as Dickinson, but his included white gloves, and his pistol was a special Colt .45 that had been passed down in his family. It had an ivory handle, and the metal was engraved with images of ivy vines. It was quite a fine piece, and Travis prided himself on it.

Crockett and and a younger James Jones smiled as they approached the Alamo, “Hello!” Crockett called, “The name’s Davy Crockett. I’ve come with thirty good ol’ boys from Tennessee to help you outta’ your predicament!”

Travis, Noah, and Dickinson stared. Then, they all broke into wide grins. “Open the doors!” Travis called down to the men, and the Alamo’s heavy oaken doors swung open to admit Crockett and his men. Dickinson and Noah ran downstairs to greet the new arrivals, and Crockett proudly marched the men inside. James was at the front of the crowd, and he spotted Noah. “Pleasure to meet you, Texas,” he said cordially, firmly shaking his hand, “I’m Tennessee.”

Noah smiled, “Pleasure’s all mine. Thanks for coming, man, the men are… less than enthused, at the moment.”

“That reminds me,” Crockett hummed, “Where’s old Jim Bowie? Didn’t they say he was leading you fellas?”

“I’m afraid that Commander Bowie has fallen quite ill,” Travis said as he descended the Alamo’s staircase to meet the Tennesseeans, “I’m Lieutenant Colonel William Travis, acting commanding officer of the Alamo.” Travis held out his hand.

“How do you do, Colonel?” Crockett asked, taking his hand and shaking it.

“Glad to see a fresh face, for one,” Travis smiled, “I certainly didn’t expect any aid from the US, certainly not from famous frontiersman Davy Crockett.”

“We’re from Tennessee!” James insisted, “We’re the Volunteer State! All the men before you heard about your situation, and came to help of their own volition.”

Travis smiled, “And I thank you all for that, Mr. Jones. Everyone, please, let’s welcome our new guests!” 

The Texans and Tennesseeans cheered, and the scene changed once more. All the soldiers were lined up outside the Alamo, and Travis, Crockett, Dickinson, Noah, James, and an ill Jim Bowie stood in front of them. Travis stepped forward gravely, and drew his officer’s sword. He stepped in front of the regiment deliberately, lowering the tip to the ground and drawing a long, straight line in the sand. 

“Listen up!” he commanded, “We have received reliable reports that Santa Anna’s army numbers roughly 4,500 men.” The soldiers gasped in apprehension, “We are outnumbered, outgunned, and outplanned. We are absolutely outmatched. I understand that a while ago, you all signed a letter resolving to defend the Alamo, and San Antonio de Bexar, however, I realize that all of you may have been caught up in the moment, and you were not fully informed of the challenge at hand. So I give you this: Any man who is willing to die for this garrison, and has resolved that he may never see his friends or loved ones again, stay where you are. Now, if there is any among you who do not wish to die, and live to fight another day, I understand fully. Please, cross the line if you would like to leave. No one will stop you.”

A heavy silence followed Travis’s words. Slowly, shakingly, a single man stepped out from the ranks. “I’m sorry, sir!” he burst into tears, hugging Travis tight, “I’ve got a wife and kids back home, and my parents are sick! Without me, they’ll be as good as dead! I-I can’t die yet!”

“It’s alright, son,” Travis cooed gently, patting the man's back, “No one’s judging you. We’ve all got families.”

Noah stepped forward, “I’m not leaving,” he said, pulling a piece of worn parchment out of his pocket, “But could you bring this letter to the Abbotts? I’ve… got a girl, see, and… if we really can’t hold here…”

“Of course!” the man said, taking the letter immediately, “You got it! Least I can do. Rest easy, Noah Jones, your girl’ll be safe!”

“Thank you,” Noah sighed gratefully. The man ran off in the direction of San Antonio. As the defenders of the Alamo went inside the fort, the nations watched as the man suddenly stiffened and fell to the sand. The image enhanced itself to show the Texan with a small throwing knife in his throat. From the shadows of the desert, Rosa Ramirez stepped out to admire her handiwork. She smirked as she took the letter from the man’s still warm hands and took out a lighter, burning it to ashes. 

“Ah, ah, ah,  _ Noè, _ ” she cooed to herself darkly, “No help for you. You made your bed,  _ chico _ , time to lie in it.”


	16. This is It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Alamo is under siege. How long can Travis, Bowie, and their men hold out?

The nations glared at Rosa, whose face betrayed nothing. The scene changed, and Bowie, Crockett, Travis, Noah, James, and Dickinson stood on the battlements of the Alamo, watching a column of red and blue travel down the hills toward San Antonio de Bexar. “They’re here,” Crockett remarked, watching the Mexicans march.

“Thank you, Mr. Crockett, for stating the obvious,” Bowie said scathingly, then broke into a hacking cough.

Travis raised a brow at their exchange, “I’d like to remind you both that we are about to face the challenge of our lives?” he muttered.

“Up yours, Travis,” Bowie responded immediately.

There was a silence after that, the only sound from the Mexicans marching on the fort. Dickinson broke into a wide, crazed grin, “Hah, hah, we’re gonna fucking die.”

No one responded to him. The scene shifted forward slightly, and the officers stood at attention as a Mexican messenger entered the fort. “I come from His Excellency, Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna,” the messenger said, and Colonel Travis nodded in acknowledgement. Bowie stood grim faced and pale, trying hard not to betray any weakness to the enemy. He took slow, shallow breaths, to prevent himself from coughing. “I seek the commanders of this fort, William Travis and James Bowie. Are you them?” Travis and Bowie nodded. “His Excellency requests your surrender of the Alamo. In turn, the lives of all will be spared.”

Travis nodded thoughtfully. “Well, sir,” he began, “That is an interesting, enticing, and may I say well thought out proposal. Dickinson! Our rebuttal.”

Dickinson grinned wildly as he stood by a particular cannon, the same cannon that had fired the first shots at Gonzales all those months ago, and fired a shot into the Mexican lines. The Mexicans scattered and screamed as the shot struck their batteries, and the messenger shook with rage, screaming at them in rapidfire Spanish as he was ushered out of the fort.

“What was he saying, Sanguine?” Travis asked the Tejano captain beside him.

“Something about how we would rue the day we crossed Santa Anna,” Sanguine replied dismissively, “Regular zealot talk. They way his soldiers speak of him you’d think he’s a god.”

“Well,” Crockett said cheerfully, turning his rifle to the Mexican lines, sighting Santa Anna several hundred yards away at the forefront of the field, “Let’s see if we can’t knock this god down a peg, eh?” He waited a little while, testing the wind, then fired one shot. Santa Anna’s shoulder whipped back, and the general stumbled back before retreating back to his lines. The Texans cheered around him, and Crockett scoffed, “Bah! The wind kicked up,” he excused himself.

“Sure, Crockett, sure,” Bowie said sarcastically, then he broke down into a fit of coughing. The officers remained unconcerned, but it didn’t stop. Bowie kept hacking and coughing until he ran out of breath and began to choke. Noah started holding out his arms in alarm, but it was too late. Bowie, deprived of oxygen, passed out and crashed to the ground, eyes moving fitfully beneath his lids.

“Help!” Crockett cried, “Get a doctor over here!” The men spurred to action, and there was a great bustle throughout the camp as they rushed to help their fallen commander. Bowie was moved to a sickbed in the inner sanctum of the church, set up around him were numerous crucifixes and candles. A little prayer never hurt. The scene shifted to nightfall, when Noah, Crockett, James, and Travis were standing on the battlements alone. The Mexican Army Band started playing a lively tune, and Crockett smiled ruefully.

“I guess they brought a band,” he remarked.

“They’re playing  _ Deguello _ ,” Travis muttered, “An old Spanish warsong that the Mexicans borrowed somewhere down the line.”

“It’s kinda pretty,” James admitted.

“‘ _ Deguello’ _ means ‘slit throat’,” Noah said flatly.

“Oh,” James responded lamely.

The song finished, and Noah’s eyes widened, “GET DOWN!” he shouted, and the Texans hit the dirt as the Mexican cannons fired volley after volley, striking that walls of the Alamo. After that, the scenes started blending together. The officers watching from the battlements,  _ Deguello _ playing at nightfall, and the cannons firing immediately afterward. Finally, the scene settled on Crockett and Noah, sitting in a gully formed by the impact of a cannonball, and  _ Deguello _ started to play once more. “You know…” Crockett sighed to the younger man, “I’m getting  _ real _ tired of that song.”

“How so?” Noah asked bitterly, huddling into his poncho against the cold.

Crockett stayed silent for a moment, then his eyes widened, “Cause I know what it’s missing. You still got that guitar of yours?”

Noah nodded, and Crockett grabbed a small bearskin sack and grabbed his hand, leading him up to the highest tower on the wall. From the sack, he pulled a fiddle, and began playing along with the Mexican band. Noah caught on, then pulled out his guitar and played as well. The Texans and Mexicans alike stared at them with a reverent curiosity, and they all finished the song together. Crockett and Noah stared at the Mexican lines, daring them to do it. Not a shot was fired. “Amazing what a little harmony can do,” Crockett remarked.  _ Deguello _ was never played again for the duration of the siege. Finally, the scene shifted once more, and as dusk fell, somewhere on the top of the wall, a bored soldier had carved into the adobe brick with his knife, keeping a tally of how many days they had been under siege. The tally counted thirteen. 

“This is it,” Noah said to the nations, “This is the Fall of the Alamo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da! Sorry for the lull recently, school has been absolute HELL. I try to get this done ASAP, but no promises. Things should be back to normal by Tuesday.


	17. As Goes the Alamo, So Goes Texas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Alamo falls.
> 
> WARNING!! WARNING!!! INCREDIBLY GRAPHIC VIOLENCE DEPICTED!!!

The Alamo was eerily silent. Not a soldier stirred as they settled down for the night’s rest. The Mexicans, however, still moved. In fact, they seemed to be gearing up for an attack. Line after line of infantry marched forward across the northern field, to the wall that was the weakest. Little more than wooden palisades stood in their way, and a few foxholes that acted as guard posts. The guards in said foxholes had nodded off as well, and the Mexican infantry moved near silently to the walls. The guard stirred, started to cry out, and was run through by a bayonet. 

Within the fort, Davy Crockett just happened to stir, and heard the shuffling feet of the Mexicans. Unsure of what the sound was, he peeked over the palisade and cried out in alarm, firing his weapon at the advancing enemies. The loud bang from Crockett’s gun woke the Texans, and they realized they were under attack. They sprang into action, Travis running out of his quarters, shouting “Protect the women and children!” Dickinson ran to his post at the artillery, firing on the Mexican lines, and Noah leapt to the wall, rifle in hand, firing at the Mexicans with the Texan defenders rallying around Crockett. Strangely, Juan Sanguine and James Jones were absent from the scene. 

“Where were you in all this, James?” Alfred asked innocently, and James flinched.

“I had… already left,” James said eventually, “I went with Juan Sanguine to try and get relief from General Houston.”

“Ah,” Alfred responded, letting the clearly uncomfortable subject drop.

The Texans roared with rage as they defended their fort, Mexican after Mexican falling in the field, their bodies getting tangled in the thickets. Dickinson called for another volley, and a wave of infantrymen was blown back by the cannonshot. Soon, however, the Mexicans' numbers started to show, and siege ladders were set up against the Alamo’s walls. More contingents came from different walls, setting up their siege ladders, and soon, the Texans were overrun. “Fall back!” Travis shouted, and the Texans withdrew from the palisade. Crockett led a small group of men into the inner sanctum of the church, Saint Francis of Assisi and Saint Dominic watching over them from the church’s sculptured walls. The nations saw Noah jump from the battlements, rolling to alleviate the pain of the fall, and found himself next to Colonel Travis, whom had drawn his sword and pistol, rifle empty and discarded. Travis roared and fired at the Mexicans attacking him, swinging his sword at their throats. Noah ran to help him, but one infantryman got lucky, and Travis choked as a bayonet lodged itself in his gut. Screaming with rage, Noah cracked his rifle over the Mexican’s head, snapping it in two, and used the bayonet to slit his throat. The Mexican fell to the ground, throat bubbling, and Noah caught Travis as the young officer stumbled to the earth. Coughing up blood, Travis looked his personification in the eye. Mustering the last of his strength, he pressed his treasured Colt .45 into Noah’s hands, whispering, “Remember us, Texas.” 

“I promise!” Noah cried, placing his hands over Travis’ as the lieutenant colonel left this world for the next. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and his labored breathing stopped. “Travis?” Noah asked brokenly, “TRAVIS!” There was no response from the young officer. The blue uniform he was so proud of soaked through with red. The nations saw a brief image of a young boy, and a beautiful woman, laughing as Travis played with them. Travis’ wife and son. Gritting his teeth, Noah closed his colonel’s eyes and gripped the revolver tightly, turning and fighting his way over to the artillery. 

Captain Dickinson roared defiance as the Mexicans forced their way through his artillery window, blasting at them with his shotgun. Before Noah could reach him, a Mexican shot him in the side, and Dickinson collapsed onto a cannon. As he died, he read the cannon’s town of origin:  _ Gonzales. _ Grim faced, Captain Almaron Dickinson fired one last defiant salvo from the Gonzales Cannon, and breathed his last. 

Noah cursed and fell back to the inner sanctum, then felt his stomach drop as he heard a defiant yell. Commander Bowie. Noah ran to his chamber, where he killed his way through a throng of Mexicans with Travis’ gun. He was too late. Jim Bowie lay dead in his sickbed, two empty pistols at his side, his famous Bowie knife clutched feebly in his hands. Bayonets were still buried in his stomach. Bowie coughed and looked up, and Noah realized he wasn’t quite dead. “I did it for Texas…” he breathed, and his eyes turned dull. The Bowie knife clattered to the floor, and Noah rushed to pick it up. Taking the sheath from Bowie’s nightstand, he strapped it on himself, crying and closing his commander’s eyes. The nations were once more struck by an ethereal image, this one of Bowie in his home in San Antonio, at his fiance’s quinceanera, kissing her in the romantic torchlight.

Noah then joined up with the last remaining group of Texan defenders, holed up at the mission’s altar. Davy Crockett roared as he fired from behind a sandbag, and they fought on until the sun rose. The last two remaining Texans were Noah and Davy Crockett, and the Mexicans quickly overwhelmed them. The two were disarmed and bound at the wrist, made to kneel in the center courtyard before the Mexican officers. At the forefront stood a translator, Rosa Ramirez, and Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna himself. 

The translator smiled. “His Excellency has graciously extended to you one final chance for surrender, Davy Crockett and Noé Ramirez.”

“NOÉ RAMIREZ IS DEAD!” Noah screamed, straining against his binds, “You killed him the moment you marched on Gonzales! My name is Noah Jones!”

Rosa frowned, “But,  _ chico… _ ” she murmured.

“I hate to break it to you,  _ bruja _ , but I’m  _ not _ your ‘ _ chico _ ’,” Noah hissed at her, and Rosa’s lip curled in disgust.

Santa Anna put a restraining hand on her shoulder, and Davy Crockett started to laugh. “Well, that might be a little hard,” he started, struggling to speak around his swollen, bleeding lips, “See, it might be a little too late. He doesn't like you guys too much. But, I’m confident, given a little time, I could do it. If you truly want to surrender, I can march you all down to General Houston right now and put in a good word. He might even be able to spare your lives.”

The translator balked. “Tell him,” Crockett ordered. The translator spluttered in indignance, and Crockett roared, “TELL HIM!!”

“ _ <What did he say?> _ ” Santa Anna asked in Spanish, bemused by the Texan’s fire.

The translator threw up his hands in exasperation, “ _ <He… he wants us to surrender.> _ ” the man eventually supplied. Santa Anna’s eyes grew cold. Stalking forward, he took Travis’ gun from the infantryman who had been holding the Texan’s armaments.

“ _ <A fine piece,> _ ” he said admiringly, cocking back the hammer as he walked behind the two kneeling Texans. 

“ _ That’s not yours! _ ” Noah roared, outraged that this man was defiling his colonel’s beloved pistol by daring to hold it.

Santa Anna sneered and aimed the gun down at Crockett’s head. “Noah, son, look at me,” Crockett, said, and Noah fearfully looked him in the eye. Crockett smiled reassuringly, “This ain’t your fault, son. We did it for Texas. This ain’t your fau-” Santa Anna fired. An image of a man dressed in furs, sitting comfortably at a campfire, the vast wilderness stretched out before him, went through the nations' minds. Crockett’s skull exploded, and Noah screamed as the frontiersman’s blood splattered onto him. Bits of Davy’s brain clung to his cheek, and Noah’s mind broke. 

The Texan screamed and cried, bashing his head against the ground, all semblance of sanity forgotten. Tortured sobs and broken screams tore from his lips, and tears poured down his face. His jumbled thoughts ran through the nation’s minds, small phrases like  _ Oh, God, everyone’s gone! _ and  _ Help me, please, anyone! I don’t wanna die! _ , and finally,  _ Oh, Dear God, THERE IS ANOTHER MAN’S BRAINS ON ME!!! _ Noah’s horrified thoughts brought the states to tears, and many of the older nations stood with grim recognition of a broken, shattered psyche. 

As Noah languished in his mental hellscape, Santa Anna sneered and turned Travis’ gun to the raving teen. “ _ <And now, at long last, a blow to the heart of Texas…> _ ” he smirked, and he fired the weapon. The bullet tore through Noah’s chest, and he fell to the ground limp, his poncho soaking red with his blood. His eyes dulled, and the tears of insanity still rolled down his cheeks and into the sand beneath him. Rosa stood with the Mexicans, watching her son be killed before her eyes, and she did nothing.

Santa Anna dropped the gun next to Noah’s body, and paced back to his soldiers. “ _ <Burn the bodies,> _ ” he ordered.

“ _ <Wait, Your Excellency!> _ ” Rosa cried out, “ _ <Don’t burn Noé!> _ ”

“ _ <Don’t tell me you still hold attachment to that insolent bastard?> _ ” Santa Anna scoffed.

“ _ <O-Of course not!> _ ” Rosa stammered, regaining her cold composure, “ _ <I simply mean, leave his body to the buzzards. Let Texas rot, like the ‘country’ itself soon will.> _ ”

Santa Anna smiled cruelly. He nodded, then returned to his men. He looked out on San Antonio, then turned to his retainers. “ _ <Sack the town,> _ ” he declared, “ _ <Kill any who resist.> _ ” The retainers nodded, then set about following his orders. 

Noah’s body lay still in the Alamo, his own lifeblood pooling around him, and none even giving him proper burial rites. What remained of Crockett’s body was dragged away to a pyre, along with Bowie, Dickinson, and finally Colonel Travis. Their bodies were reduced to mere ashes, and then the Mexicans turned their torches to San Antonio. In a large, wealthy house, an old man stubbornly aimed a Winchester at the Mexicans invading his home, a scared slave girl with a fan cowering behind him. The Mexicans opened fire, and Old Mr. Abbott cried out as he fell, the bullets passing through him and into Daisy, who fell dead instantly, her beloved fan still clutched close to her heart. The Alamo had fallen. Texas was doomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "bruja" - Spanish for "hag"
> 
> And that's that. The penultimate part of the Alamo Saga. One more yet to come, dealing with the fallout of all this. Sorry if I freaked anybody out with Crockett's death, but I felt it needed the brutality in that scene in order to feel right.


	18. Houston, We Have a Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This joke needed to be made eventually...

Noah woke up several hours later. The Mexicans were gone, the Alamo was in ruins. With aching, stiff limbs, he struggled to his feet. He recovered the Bowie knife, then thoroughly cleaned Travis’ pistol before holstering it at his hip. He did all these things with a numb, slow composure, totally emotionless. He silently pulled the fedora back onto his head and started walking slowly, ever so slowly, out of the Alamo. He exited the walls, and found a massive pile of ashes. Vaguely, he remembered Santa Anna ordering his men to burn the bodies. He knew what this was. Silently, he dipped his fingers into the ash, and lined under his eyes with the remains of his fallen comrades. He would carry Dickinson, Bowie, Crockett, and Travis with him until Santa Anna was brought to justice. 

He stumbled through the empty streets of San Antonio, and came up to the Abbott Estate. He silently walked up the steps, and through the broken door. He found Old Mr. Abbott and Daisy, unburied and beginning to attract flies. Noah’s face betrayed nothing. The nations watched as he left the room, and found a spade to start digging two holes in the yard. He dug for hours, until he had two six foot deep holes, then returned inside and began moving the bodies. He placed Old Mr. Abbott down with his Winchester, and crossed Daisy’s arms over her chest, fan still clutched in her hands. There was a hole in her forehead, and Old Abbott’s coat was still stained with blood. Noah ignored such thoughts. He buried them, then plucked two daisies from the garden, and laid them over the graves. He picked one petal from each flower, tucking them into his cap. Noah left the graveside without any word, nor any emotional expression at all. Just silent, methodical movements. Texas seemed… hollow. Not quite all there. Nonetheless, the nations watched as he climbed aboard a horse and began to slowly ride out of San Antonio.

The scene flashed to a military camp. Tents were lined up in rows, and out from one bearing the Texan flag, Sam Houston himself strode forth, looking out at the horizon. He was soon joined by Juan Sanguine and James Jones. “Any word from the Alamo?” Houston asked them.

“No, General,” Sanguine said. James whined sadly.

“It’s… unusual for a personification to be away so long like this, isn’t it?” Houston asked the young state.

“Yessir,” James responded nervously.

Houston hummed noncommittally. At that moment, there arose a great shout from the far side of the camp. Houston, James, and Sanguine rushed over to see what it was, and they were greeted by a lone rider. The troops were crowding around him, and he simply had his head bowed and his face hidden beneath his wide-brimmed fedora. Upon seeing Houston, he dismounted. “Clear a space!” Houston ordered, and the lone rider walked forward slowly to meet the General as the troops back off. James gave a little gasp of recognition, and Noah Jones raised his head to look Houston in the eye.

Noah looked radically different. His normally soft, friendly brown eyes were now dull and stormy gray. His normally smiling face was dominated by an emotionless frown. He was covered in dirt and grime, and he had drawn black lines beneath his eyes with some ash. There were two daisy petals tucked into his hat, and his poncho was stained with blood. At his hip, a massive knife and ornate pistol were holstered. Texas saluted his general, and unblinkingly held his gaze until Houston returned the salute. “Jones,” Houston ordered uncertainly, “Report.”

“Sir,” Noah acknowledged, “Total losses, sir. The Alamo has been destroyed. The Mexicans have San Antonio. We failed, sir.”

The Texan Army stared at him. “This… this is a joke, right, Tex?” one soldier laughed nervously.

Noah swung his dull, disinterested gaze to him. “No, it isn’t.”

There was silence. Then, a cry of anguish erupted from the ranks, and soon the whole camp was mourning the Alamo. “Dismissed, Jones,” Houston said eventually, and he retreated to his tent. Noah started walking through the camp, and James caught him by the arm. “Hey, Tex? You alright?” he asked, “What happened back there? Where’s Crockett?”

Noah stared at him. There was no emotion in it, no incredulity, no outrage, no hurt, just… nothing. “Total losses,” Noah repeated. James’ eyes widened. 

“B-but… the body?” he asked timidly.

Noah silently tapped the lines under his eyes, then broke from Tennessee’s grip, stalking his way over to a vacant tent. James watched him go, then fell to his knees in the grass, holding himself as he mourned for his lost friend. Some of the nations turned away, unable to bear the sight, while Tennessee and Texas grimly put an arm around each other. They had gotten through this before, they could do it again.

The scene shifted to Houston striding out of his tent and ordering for camp to be broken. They were retreat ing. The scenes shifted together like a montage, Houston setting camp, breaking camp, retreating, Santa Anna advancing, rinse, wash, repeat. Desperate escape after desperate escape. The Texans had nowhere left to hide. Houston’s commanders were getting fed up, the soldiers were tired, and through it all, Noah silently obeyed his General’s orders. Soon, the scene settled on the next Texan encampment. A messenger came up to Houston, and said, “General! We’ve just received word that Santa Anna is only two miles away from here!”

“Is that so?” Houston asked, “How many men do we reckon he’s got with him?”

“Estimates say very few, sir,” the messenger said.

Houston grinned. He walked forward through a dense patch of foliage and came out into an open field, and sighted the Mexican lines a few miles away. “This is it…” he breathed to himself, “This is my Waterloo…”

At nightfall, the Texans prepared for an attack. Houston sat astride a white stallion, and James, Sanguine, and Noah rode at his side. “We stand here upon the cusp of engagement--an engagement we have been ready to meet for far too long,” Houston began, “General Santa Anna and his army are camped just beyond the shrubbery yonder. His forces are splintered and we have the opportunity to deal them such a defeat sufficient enough to win back the great land of Texas! We will surely prevail--and when we do, you will remember every second of the battle for the rest of your lives. But during the course of the battle I want you to remember something else. I want you to remember the Alamo! Two months ago, General Santa Anna's troops massacred the brave men who strove to protect the Alamo and so protect Texas. These brave men were militia and volunteers much like yourselves with all the qualities that make up fine fighters. These brave men were our brothers! Our fathers! Our sons! And our greatest protectors! They sacrificed their lives to give us this chance, all of them! Colonel Travis, Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, Captain Dickinson, and a hundred eighty more! You will remember this battle for the rest of your lives, sure… but for now, live to remember the Alamo!” 

The Texans roared, and they charged through the treeline. Houston came out onto the field first, and a shout rose from the Mexican camp. Soldiers that had been sleeping moments before now rushed about to prepare, and the Texans advanced like lightning. Texan cannons fired on the camp, and the Tejano Cavalry, lead by Juan Sanguine, galloped over the gully in the field, flanking the Mexicans. “REMEMBER THE ALAMO!!” the Texans cried, and lines of muskets opened fire. 

On the field, Noah seemed to come alive again, he galloped his dark, chestnut horse forward, and drew Travis’ pistol and fired into the Mexican ranks. “REMEMBER ME, YOU SONS A BITCHES!?!” Noah screamed at them, firing again and again, always hitting his mark, “I’M BACK!! YOU DIDN’T BREAK ME!! REMEMBER THE ALAMO!!” Noah leapt from his horse and tackled a Mexican officer, shooting him in the head. The Mexicans screamed and retreated to a nearby river, but Noah raised his knife, and the Texans followed him after them. 

The Mexicans floundered in the water, screaming and running, begging for mercy, some even performing the Sign of the Cross. Noah didn’t care. Had  _ they _ showed mercy at the Alamo? Had  _ they _ let Travis, Dickinson, Bowie, and Crockett live?  _ HAD THEY!?! _ Noah roared with rage, slashing at helpless men with his knife, and the Texans followed his lead, firing from the riverbanks and shouting “REMEMBER THE ALAMO!” once more.

Noah took up the cry, chanting, “Remember the Alamo! Remember! REMEMBER MY YELLOW ROSE!!!!” Tears streamed down his face as the ash was washed away, and Noah continued to slaughter every Mexican he saw. In a flash, he came face to face with Rosa Ramirez, and without a moment’s hesitation, Noah slit his mother’s throat, and buried the Bowie knife in her gut. In the present, Rosa traced her hand across her throat in remembrance.

The nations were repulsed by the savagery before them. Helpless, unarmed, begging men were being brutally slaughtered, and Noah was leading the charge. General Houston, Juan Sanguine, and James Jones sat at the riverbank, watching in horror. Noah was a totally different person, like a feral beast, a lion in the sheep’s pen. Finally, Houston’s cries of “CEASE FIRE, CEASE FIRE!!” broke through the din, and the Texans slowly stopped the killing. The survivors were rounded up and bound, then marched to a more suitable holding location. Noah was lost in the confusion, but soon, the scene changed to where the Texans had brought the Mexican prisoners. One was of chief interest: Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. Houston, Sanguine, and James stood over him, debating what to do with him, when a furious roar split the air.

“SANTA ANNA!!” Noah thundered, and he drew his pistol and before anyone could react, levelled it at the Mexican general. Santa Anna curled up in fear and alarm, and Noah chuckled darkly. “That’s right…” he murmured, “Remember me…?” He was covered head to toe in Mexican blood, and to the exhausted, injured general, the young Texan looked like a demon.

“ _ L-lo sien- _ ” Santa Anna started, but Noah slammed the gun’s stock into his head.

“ENGLISH, MOTHERFUCKER, DO YOU SPEAK IT!?!” he snapped, and Houston tried to calm him down.

“Noah, son, put the gun down…” he warned, but Noah ignored him.

“S-s-s-some…” Santa Anna admitted, eyes fixed on the barrel of the gun.

“Good,” Noah said, a crazed light shining in his eyes, “That’s good… Now, General… Do. You. Remember. Me?” Santa Anna nodded slowly. Noah smiled coldly, “Cause I remember. I remember your troops killing my colonel, who  _ died in my arms _ . I remember your troops blowing Almaron Dickinson to Hell in his own battery. I remember you killing a man in  _ his own fucking sickbed _ , I remember you executing a slavegirl that just so happened to be the  _ love of my LIFE _ , and I sure as Hell remember you, yourself, BLOWING DAVY CROCKETT’S BRAINS ALL OVER ME, WITH THIS HERE VERY PISTOL!!” Noah was screaming now, and the Texans stood silently as they watched the teen unravel. Noah crouched, his face mere inches from Santa Anna’s. “Can you answer me, something, General?” he asked, lowering his eyes as tears began to form, “I watched you kill…  _ everyone _ , I’ve ever cared about. I was powerless while you burned my world to the ground. I came here today of getting revenge, so YOU ANSWER ME, GENERAL!!” Noah looked up, and tears were streaming down his face, and his voice became quiet, and broken, “Why can’t I pull the trigger…?” Noah broke down, crying and sobbing as the emotions he’d bottled away for so long came pouring out of him. “Why can’t I do it?” he kept asking, “Why…?” Houston and James swooped in as Travis’ gun clattered to the dirt, and Noah leaned into their embraces, still sobbing. 

Houston and James pulled him away from Santa Anna, and Houston kicked the gun away from everyone. “Shh, shh, son, it’s okay,” Houston cooed softly, rubbing the boy’s back, and James blushed as he held Noah’s hand. A wave of guilt crashed over the nations, undertoned with… love? In the present, Texas stared at Tennessee, who refused to meet his gaze. 

The scene ended, and the nations were back in the conference room. Before questions could be asked, Texas stood up and left the room. Tennessee started to get up, but of all people, New York grabbed his shoulder and sat him back down. “I’ll go talk to him,” the Yankee said firmly.

“ _ You? _ ” James balked, “No offense, Alan, but he  _ hates _ you!”

“I know,” Alan said, smoothing out his pinstripe suit, “But I’m the one he needs to talk to right now. You guys stay here, I won’t be long. I don’t think, anyway.”

"I don't-" James started again, but the New Yorker silenced him with a look.

"Look, I..." Alan began awkwardly, "I been through the same type'a stuff he's been through. Just lemme talk to 'im, alright?"

James frowned, but nodded. With that, New York put his hat on and left the room, wondering what the Hell he was going to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of the Alamo Arc! What could New York and Texas POSSIBLY have in common 0_o? The answer to all this and more, later!


	19. A Much Needed Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New York confronts Texas about his feelings, and for once, a happy ending.

Noah was holed up in his room, and sighed as the door opened to admit Alan Jones, otherwise known as the great state of New York. “One of the Original 13,” Noah muttered bitterly, “I should be honored.  _ Should be _ .”

“Yes, you should,” Alan agreed, taking off his hat as he entered, “I came to talk, Texas. Not burn bridges.”

“You mean the bridges we’ve already burned a thousand times?” Noah asked, leaning back on a desk and crossing his arms.

“Yes, those bridges,” Alan confirmed.

“The fuck do you want, New York?” Noah finally snapped.

Instead of rising up to the challenge with his usual fire, Alan simply sat down heavily in a nearby chair, sighing a long, drawn out sigh. He ran a hand through his mousy brown hair, then looked up at the bewildered Texan. “I came here to say I know what you’ve been through,” he said.

Texas glowered. “How  _ dare _ you…” he growled, “You know what I been through? You do? You watched your WHOLE WORLD CRUMBLE AROUND YOU, AND YOU’VE BEEN POWERLESS TO STOP IT!?!”

New York held his gaze unflinchingly. “Yes,” he said simply, “I have.”

Texas scoffed. “When?” he asked sharply.

“1929. Wall Street,” Alan said, his voice shaking slightly, “2001. World Trade Center.”

Texas faltered. “R-right…” he murmured, “I… I don’t know what to say…” 

“Then don’t say anything,” Alan said, standing up once more, “Just know that you’re not the only one, Texas. The economy is my life. When it fell, I was lost. Luckily, I had Jersey, Mass, and Penn to pull me out of it. The city is my home. When it was attacked, I was devastated. Luckily, dear old Dad marched across the Middle East with me and got my revenge. You’re not the only state that’s been through suffering and pain. If you ever need to talk, I’m just down the hall.”

Texas stared at him. “I…” he floundered, at a loss for words. He and Alan had  _ never  _ been this friendly toward one another, he didn’t know how to react.

“And for God’s sake, go talk to Tennessee,” Alan sighed irritably, regaining some of his old personality, “I think you just about broke the poor kid’s heart with that little hissy fit of yours.”

Texas bristled, “Hissy fit…!” he started indignantly, but Alan held up a hand.

“NOT the operative part of that sentence, Tex,” he said, and Noah growled in frustration.

“I just…” he started, then he blushed furiously, “It’s not that I don’t like him, it’s just… I feel like I’m… doin something wrong. Betraying her.”

“Oh,  _ Texas _ ,” Alan sighed, shaking his head, “You really are pathetic. We’re immortals, Noah! We’re never gonna go to that place, not for another millennium, at least. Besides, I think you an’ I’ve done more harm than good anyhow, and if you ask me, we’re all probably gonna be on the express elevator goin  _ down _ .”

“Gee, it’s all sunshine an’ rainbows in New York, ain’t it?” Noah muttered dryly.

Alan waved his hand, “That’s Upstate,” he said dismissively, “Not the point. The point is, much as you loved her, Noah,  _ she isn’t coming back. _ And, frankly? Daisy didn’t seem the type’a girl to hold a grudge. She’d probably want you to be happy, Tex, and all that stereotypical bullshit. So go, Noah Jones,” he put his hat back on and began to walk out the door, “Go be happy. ‘Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.’” After quoting the document by which all states swore fealty, New York walked off, whistling the tune of Frank Sinatra’s  _ New York, New York _ as he left.

Texas stared as his adopted brother left, and James was standing nervously in the doorway, rubbing his arm. “J-James…” Noah started awkwardly.

“Noah,” James responded, equally uncomfortable. 

“I wanted to-” “Can we ta-” They both started at the same time, and then they chuckled as they broke off. “You first,” James said.

“Right,” Noah responded, rubbing his hands together, “I wanted to apologize, for the way I ran off earlier. I just… needed to think.”

“Right. Yeah, no, I get it,” Tennessee nodded several times.

“I also, uh…” Noah started, then cursed, “ _ Damn it, York! _ I wanted to ask if maybe you wanted to… I don’t know… go fishing, or something?”

Tennessee lightened up immediately, as if someone had turned on a lightswitch.”I’d like that,” he said, beaming giddily. They smiled at each other, and for once, there was no discomfort or underlying emotions that they didn’t want to address. They might not have been…  _ there _ yet, but… they were on the right track. And for now, that was fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da! A happy ending! See, I can still write those!


	20. Primo Victoria!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June 6th, 1944. One of, if not the, most influential days in all history.

The next day, after all the nations had gained a good night’s sleep, they met back in the conference room for one more go with the book. Everyone was worn down by the generally depressing images of the book, and they were… less than enthusiastic about opening it again. Once more Ludwig stood at the head of the table, book in hand, and under his breath, whispered, “For the love of _Gott_ , show us something positive, would you?” He opened the book, and the room was filled by the white light of the enchanted pages, and the nations found themselves in a war room. Younger versions of Alfred, Matthew, and Arthur stood around a table, poring over a map.

“Is this…?” Alfred asked, his voice awed and overjoyed.

“I do believe it is!” Arthur exclaimed, breaking into a grin. Matthew only smiled warmly.

“What?” Italy asked, looking around the dimly lit room apprehensively.

“This is D-Day,” Arthur informed him, and all the involved nations and states grinned wildly. Even Germany, whom had been defeated, could appreciate the importance of D-Day. He counted it as one of the greatest and most honorable battles he had ever had the pleasure of being a part of.

In the past, Arthur straightened up from the table, and said, “So are we all in agreement?”

“Yes,” Matthew responded.

“Totally!” Alfred exclaimed, pumping his fist in excitement. His allies stared at him, and he sheepishly rubbed the back of his head, “Uh… I mean, ‘Yes,’”

With the present nations, Alexander flicked his brother’s ear scoldingly. “Ah! What was that for?” Alfred whined, rubbing his ear.

“Embarrassing the nation,” Alexander muttered haughtily, while New York laughed in the background, “I _am_ still a US personification, and I won’t stand for your childish behavior during serious situations!” Alfred pouted, and the scene shifted forward slightly.

Past Alfred, dressed in his bomber jacket, was standing with none other than General George S. Patton, as they watched men and women from the American film industry rush about in the field with cardboard cutouts of soldiers and inflatable tanks. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Alfred,” Patton said flatly.

“It was Arthur’s idea!” Alfred protested, “And it made sense! You’re a prominent, celebrated general. If the Germans see you here, they’re going to think the invasion is happening in Calais. But, we can’t spare any men, so we came up with… this.”

“You really think cardboard and balloons are going to fool the Nazis?” Patton raised an angry eyebrow.

“I’m sorry, General, but this is the plan,” Alfred said, “Overlord _needs_ to go off without a hitch. For that to happen, the Germans need to think we’re heading to Calais. To do _that_ , you need to be staged near Calais. Europe is depending on us.”

Patton threw up his hands in defeat and anger exclaiming, “If the Germans fall for this, I’ll be fucking amazed!” Patton then stalked off, muttering, “I’ll be a _laughingstock!_ ‘Patton’s Balloon Brigade’!” Alfred sighed in exasperation as the general left.

Meanwhile, Present Alfred was laughing his ass off while Ludwig blushed bright red. “I can’t believe you _fell for that!_ ” Alfred laughed, doubled over and wheezing.

Ludwig turned away, muttering, “Cameras weren’t very good back then…” Meanwhile, Prussia had his hand tightly clamped over his mouth, trying very hard not to join Alfred. Angrily embarrassed, Ludwig whacked his brother upside the head, and the scene shifted once more.

Now, Arthur was the focus, standing in a room with several MI5 agents and Prime Minister Winston Churchill. “Do the Germans expect anything in Normandy?” Arthur asked the agents.

“No, sir,” one responded, “We have Garbo selling false secrets in the German embassy in Madrid. The Germans wholeheartedly believe that the invasion will be in Calais. As Garbo has told them, any attack from Scotland or say… Normandy, is a feint.”

Churchill grinned, “And what of those beaches we’re landing at, anymore news?”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” a second MI5 agent responded, “Several families have sent in their photos from trips to France before the war. We’ve had a toymaker arrange them into a map in jigsaw puzzle form.” Two men carrying black cases entered the room, opened the cases, and dropped the contents onto the table. Sure enough, an unfinished jigsaw puzzle lay in front of them, and Arthur and Churchill sighed.

“Now…” Arthur started, staring at the currently useless pile of cardboard, “Is anyone any good at puzzles?”

“Is this…” Ludwig started, “Really what your map was?”

Arthur sighed, “Yes… The idea was that if it were captured, you wouldn’t be able to use it if it were an unfinished puzzle.”

Ludwig facepalmed. “You truly went to every extreme for this, didn’t you?” he asked.

Eventually, after many misplaced pieces, and rather comically, two MI5 agents, the Prime Minister, and the most respected knight in the country completed the puzzle like a group of bored grandmothers.

Churchill took a puff from his cigar, “What are we calling these beaches here?” he asked, gesturing to the several patches of sand on the puzzle map.

“We were intending to use the colloquial names, sir,” the MI5 agents said.

“Absolutely not,” Churchill shook his head vehemently, “We need proper British codenames for each beach.”

Arthur and the agents looked at each other. “If I may ask sir…” Arthur started awkwardly, “Why…?”

Churchill took an indignant puff from his cigar, “No British mother wants to find out her son has been killed in the Bunny Hug Landings!”

The nations laughed aloud, and the scene shifted. Now, they were in a boardroom, and the venerated General Dwight D. Eisenhower stood with his hands behind his back, looking out at the storm raging through the English Channel. Behind him, strategists from every Allied nation grumbled over forecast reports and maps of the Channel.

“The storm is too violent,” one was saying, “If we send them out, they’ll be killed by Mother Nature before they even get a whiff of the Germans!”

“But if we miss this, tidal conditions and moonlight won’t line up again until July!” another protested, “It’s now or never!”

“Either shit, or get off the pot,” a third one agreed.

Then, the door opened, and all the strategists turned. One British man in an RAF uniform strode into the room, holding some papers in his hand. “Sir, Captain James Stagg, reporting,” he said, saluting to Eisenhower.

Eisenhower eyed him warily. He returned the salute, then said, “Report, Captain Stagg. And explain.”

Stagg held out the papers, saying, “I am a meteorologist for His Majesty’s Royal Air Force, sir. I believe it will be clear on the 6th.”

Eisenhower looked over the papers, then looked out at the storm. “Notify the troops,” he said eventually, “We launch on the 6th.”

Alfred beamed with pride, and the scene shifted to the big day. Dawn was just breaking on June 6th, 1944, and the Allied forces were sailing forth to meet the Atlantic Wall. They were huddled in their landing craft, and several gasped at the sight and recognition of several of their fellow personifications. It wasn’t just Alfred, Arthur, and Matthew. Throughout the invasion force Australia, New Zealand, Poland, Czechoslovakia, _all_ of America’s states, Scotland, Northern Ireland, Wales, the Netherlands, Norway, Belgium, Greece and even a much younger Israel stood with grim determination, guns and weapons clutched in their hands. There were also several men from France, but Francis himself was absent. Arthur gasped as he spotted a familiar lock of red hair, and a disguised Patrick Kirkland stood in the landing craft with the other soldiers, living up to his name as the Irish Volunteer. “Patrick, you were with us…?” Arthur asked in awe.

Patrick blushed and looked away, grumbling, “Well, the Germans weren’t going to stop at _your_ island, were they?” The conversation was dropped.

As the landing crafts traversed the Channel, one of the states, Tennessee, began to sing. A grim, determined note, and one that every American recognized well. From the invasion force, the chorus of _The Battle Hymn of the Republic_ rose into the air, defiant and unearthly, and every American realized the challenge that they were facing. And damn it, they would face it together. From the British, _I Vow to Thee, My Country_ rose through the air, joining _The Battle Hymn of the Republic_ , and soon from the French, _La Marseille_ flew into the air. From the Canadians bound for Juno Beach, an impassioned chorus of _Farewell to Nova Scotia_ joined them, and most peculiarly, one Scottish man began to play his bagpipes to the tune of _Scotland the Brave_. The Allies sailed forward with a song in their hearts as they went to meet the Germans.

The explosions started, and regardless, many of them kept singing, perhaps even louder now, defiantly singing their songs in the face of the Atlantic Wall, and the landing crafts hit the sand. The doors dropped, and with a mighty roar, the Allied Powers burst forth with all their power and might. Nazi gunfire opened up over their heads, and the Allies surged forward still. Ghostly, unearthly images filled the battlefield, and the present nations watched in awe.

“I… never realized…” Arthur breathed, and from the shore a platoon of ghostly English archers fired on the Germans, their longbows twanging. Such archers hadn’t been deployed since the Hundred Years’ War.

“I saw them,” Ludwig admitted as Napoleon Bonaparte galloped onto the field, sword flashing in triumph as he lead the French onward once more, if only for a moment, “They were terrifying, but also… inspiring.”

For the Americans, General George Washington appeared, astride his horse and his banners waving in the wind. On the water, an aetherial _USS Constitution_ fired its cannons, the Rattlesnake Jack waving from its rigging. Two more ships appeared on the horizon, one waving the peculiar Dutch-made standard of the American privateer John Paul Jones, the other being the fated _Queen Anne’s Revenge_ , captained by the dread pirate Blackbeard. Together, the three legendary ships fired broadside after broadside after broadside, raining iron hellfire on the German defences.

At Utah Beach, aging General Theodore Roosevelt Jr. was confronted by his commanders. “We’re in the wrong place,” they said, “The terrain is all wrong!”

Roosevelt Jr. looked up at the German defences. They were lighter in this area, and the beach was more strategically viable than the original plan anyhow. As he squinted at the lines, he gasped as he saw a ghostly image of a man on his horse, leading the charge against the Germans with his cavalry, thundering across the sand. He’d know that sight anywhere! “Excellent,” he exclaimed to them, smiling from ear to ear, “We’ll start the war from right here! Take the beach, men!” Roosevelt Jr. looked back up to the lines, and sure enough, there was his father and his Rough Riders, vanishing just before reaching the lines, back to the hills of Cuba.

As the nations spotted Massachusetts charging forward, an orange light glowed behind his eyes, and a ghostly group of Minutemen formed behind him and fired muskets, felling a group of Germans.

Louisiana growled as she was caught behind a gully in the sand, pinned down by Germans, and Andrew Jackson appeared at her side, roaring defiance as he had in New Orleans all those years ago.

As Greece charged the beaches, his eyes glowed a diamond blue, and King Leonidas and his 300 Spartans appeared behind him, banging their spears against their shields and charging forward.

Wales roared as he ran forward, the Red Dragon banner flying in the wind as he fired. Robert the Bruce swung his sword in a mighty arc, lobbing off the head of a German about to kill Scotland. Ireland tucked and rolled into the sand, and the notorious Irish pirate Grainne Mhaol appeared beside him, cutlass flashing and flintlock firing.

Australia was blown back by an explosion, and Ned Kelly, dressed in his iconic Iron Bandit armor, shimmered in front of him, tanking the hail of bullets that followed. Kelly drew his twin shotguns, and strode forward into the chaos, firing with both hands as he did so.

Yosef hit the dirt as a mine went off, and King David appeared by his side, pulling him up and setting him back on his feet, then turning and drawing his sword.

As Norway ran forward, a horde of Viking warriors appeared behind him, axes and wooden shields waving in the din, warcries roaring from their throats as they departed for Valhalla.

Finally, Alfred gasped as he saw Arkansas and South Carolina, about to be shot down by Germans, saved by the timely arrival of none other than Alexander S. Jones. Dressed in his Confederate uniform and weilding an Enfield rifle, Alexander repelled the Germans with a snarl, then charged up the beach, his duty of saving his children not yet over.

It was an inspiring sight, seeing all the history of their nations, all the wars and famous warriors culminating into one, triumphant battle. Even Ludwig, who had been defeated in this battle, watched with awe as the Allies fought ferociously. Finally, the scene shifted forward, and the Allies had almost won the day. They were no longer on the beaches of Normandy, but this time in the French town of Bastogne, where the American 101st Airborne Division, otherwise known as the Screaming Eagles, was holding its ground.

An American lieutenant came up to his commander with a correspondence in his hands, shouting, “Sir! There’s an offer of surrender from the Germans!”

The commander looked up, asking, “They’re surrendering? Wonderful!”

The lieutenant sighed exasperatedly, “No, sir, they want _us_ to surrender…”

The American commander looked at the man in front of him. It looked like he was well and truly dumbfounded as to how the Germans could possibly request for an outnumbered, outgunned, totally surrounded regiment to surrender. Then, he stood up, and shouted, “NUTS!” Then he walked out of the tent.

Alfred chuckled, “Gotta love those Screaming Eagles,” he sighed, “They sent ‘Nuts!’ as their official reply.”

“That’s nothing,” Feliciano waved his hand dismissively, “I once had this Greek town surrounded back in World War II. You know what the mayor’s office did? They sent me a letter saying: ‘Fuck off. We refuse to surrender to a nation we have defeated in Albania, and we reserve the right to surrender to a German officer of significant rank. So fuck off.’ Balls of steel, those guys.” Everyone stared at Feliciano. They’d never heard him talk so belligerently, that was usually left to his brother. Feli looked at them, “What? Was it something I said?” They continued staring.

The scene shifted once more. They were on a crossroads near Normandy, a supply railroad going through a small town. British tanks started trundling down the road, and the railyard exploded. Cries of “ _Vive la Rèsistance! Vive la France!_ ” were shouted in the streets, and men and women in the black garb of the French Resistance ran through the town, firing on bewildered Germans and freeing French civilians. The British tanks rolled to a halt, and out from one of them Arthur poked his head. Sure enough, exhausted and bleeding from a cut above his brow, Francis Bonnefoy led the freedom fighters, currently smashing a Nazi’s helmet in with the butt of his rifle. “F-Francis?” Arthur asked quietly, then the Englishman scrambled out of the tank and started running along the dirt road as fast as he could.

A British soldier took his place in the tank, bewildered by his actions, yelling, “Sir Kirkland? Where are you going!?” Arthur didn’t reply. The French finally seemed to notice the tanks, and Francis’s eyes fell on Arthur, running full tilt, and for the first time since the Swastika flew from the Eiffel Tower, he smiled.

Francis and Arthur leapt into each other’s arms, and after not seeing each other for four years, not knowing whether the other was still alive, they were finally together again. They laughed and cried, pure tears of joy and exultation, with a few praises to God thrown in. “I thought you were dead…” Arthur breathed shakily.

“I thought I was, too…” Francis returned, still holding the other man as tight as possible, “But I did what you told me to. What Charles de Gaulle told me to do. What every fiber of my being told me to do. I fought."

Arthur smiled and hugged tighter, “Indeed you did, Frog,” he laughed, looking at the wanton destruction that the French Resistance had caused, “Indeed you did.”

The scene faded to white, and for once, the nations didn't feel melancholy upon their completion of a chapter. Something about seeing those brave warriors, men who fought and bled throughout the centuries, all culminated into one climactic battle was... uplifting. Inspiring. One thing was for sure: Even immortals like them could learn a thing or two from the humans, who gave their lives for King, Country, the Land of the Free, the Home of the Brave, for Hellas, and for the Spirit of Resistance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it took forever, but I finally did it! Today, June 6th, 2019, marks the 75th Anniversary of the D-Day Invasion. Several thousand Allied troops from almost every Allied nation participated in the battle, coordinating with French resistance groups lead by the Free French and Charles de Gaulle. Every nation was nigh indispensable, and the battle was one of, if not the greatest battle in history. It marked the beginning of the end for Nazi Germany, the liberation of Europe after five years of subjugation, and to this day remains a symbol of national pride for all involved. I hereby dedicate this chapter to all who fought and bled on the beaches of Normandy, and have strived to honor them in my own, unique way. Almost every story about a human soldier in here is true, including the bagpiper from Scotland. I did use a little bit of creative liberty, but the point was to be uplifting. The chapter title is a reference to a song by Sabaton of the same name, I highly recommend giving it a listen. Have a good day, and before you go to sleep, please take a moment to remember all those who died on the Beaches of Normandy.


	21. Break's Over!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit more lighthearted repreive from the book, but it leaves off with a sour note.

The next day, the nations met once more in the conference room, refreshed and optimistic. Finally, the book was showing them things that weren’t all bad. In fact, most of it was quite funny. Now, with smiling faces, they embarked upon the next set of memories.

They were in a dark bedroom, someone sleeping in the bed, and saw a half-cocked hat hanging from the edge. The phone began to ring, and Jett groaned as he realized what memory this was. On the bed, Past Jett also groaned, yawning and barely sitting up to reach the phone, and held it to his ear, mumbling, “h-hello?”

A buzzing, tinny voice came from over the line, and miraculously, they could understand it. “Jett!” Matthew exclaimed over the line, “Thank Maple, I _needed_ to talk to someone about this, and I figured you were the one most likely to understand, and even if you don’t you live on the other side of the planet, so you really can’t do any harm as long as a Commonwealth Meeting isn’t called in the next few da-”

“Matthew?” Jett interrupted, yawning, “Whaddya want?”

“I met this… person,” Matthew said awkwardly, “And, they’re _amazing_ . I actually may have married them. And then they died. Then they came back to life. And I just, I _need_ to talk to someone about this, and you-”

“MATTHEW!” Jett roared, then pinched the band-aid on his nose in annoyance, “Look, mate, I’m glad you feel you can talk to me about this, really, I am, but it’s _3 am_ in Sydney. So kindly go fuck yourself, let me sleep, check the time zones, and _call me back in the morning_.” Jett slammed the receiver back to the pedestal. Grumbling, he rolled over and tried to get back to sleep.

The nations laughed and Canada blushed, while Jett shot him a murderous look. “I still haven’t forgiven you for that, mate,” he growled, then the scene shifted to Gilbert, sporting an arm sling and an eye patch, and looking deathly thin.

However, the Prussian seemed lively, as he was impatiently pacing the length of some sort of private hotel room. The door opened, and Gilbert rejoiced as Hungary entered. “Elizabeta, perfect!” Gilbert exclaimed, “I need to talk to you!” Without giving Hungary a chance to protest, Prussia pulled her into a smaller, less noticeable room, little more than a storage closet.

With the present nations, both Matthew and Roderich raised an eyebrow upon seeing how close the two’s bodies were in the narrow space. Gilbert was at first confused, then realized what they were thinking, and looked horrified, “I-it wasn’t-! I would never-!” he spluttered, and both men burst out laughing.

“We know, Gilbert,” Matthew sighed, patting his arm, “We were just teasing you.”

“ _Ja, ja,_ it is no worry,” Austria waved his hand dismissively, smiling all the while, then he grabbed Prussia by the collar and whispered in his ear, saying, “If you touch Elizabeta again, _I will kill you._ ”

Prussia turned pale at Austria’s sudden threat, then the actions of his past self took the focus away from them.

Elizabeta looked flustered, then stammered, “Prussia, what is this about?”

Gilbert got a blissful look on his face, saying, “Ah, _Prussia_ … I’d almost forgotten, _danke_ , Elizabeta!”

“Forgotten?” Hungary asked, bewildered, “That’s your name! And where did those injuries come from?”

Gilbert waved his good arm dismissively, saying, “Ivan was just a little more lively today than usual,” then his expression faltered a little, “And I want to thank you again, Elizabeta. You’re the only one here that still calls me ‘Prussia’. Everyone insists on calling me ‘East Germany’, because they’re afraid of what Ivan will do to them if they don’t…”

Hungary put on an expression of stubborn indignance, saying, “Well, I’m not afraid of hi-!”

“But!” Gilbert interrupted, before they could get too far down the rabbit hole, “That’s not why I needed to talk to you!”

Elizabeta sighed, knowing she was beat, and asked, “Fine, Prussia, what is it?”

“I met someone,” Gilbert said feverishly, “A man. In the other world, before…” he waved vaguely to his injuries, “We’re in love. We even got married. But now we can’t see each other, and I don’t know what to do, and I’m going _insane_ in this Godforsaken place--!”

“Gilbert!” Elizabeta ordered sharply, “Calm down! Speak slowly. First of all, who is this man you’re talking about?”

Gilbert blushed intensely, “M-Matthew…” he mumbled eventually, refusing to meet Hungary’s eyes.

Elizabeta burst out laughing, then trailed off when Gilbert started blushing deeper. “Oh my God, you’re serious,” Hungary realized, then she held Prussia in a tight hug, to which he only weakly protested. “Look, Gilbert,” she said, pulling him away and forcing him to look her in the eye, “Sooner or later, this mess will end, one way or another. We just have to hold on, and then after the dust has settled, you and Matthew can see each other all you wish. Just _hold on_ , Gilbert.”

Gilbert sighed lowly, relief flooding through him. “Thanks, Hungary. You’ve been a great friend to me in here…”

Matthew in the present smiled warmly, mentally reminding himself to send Hungary a card, maybe a bouquet with maple candies, and the scene faded away to Gilbert, much more recently, marching down the hall of a hotel.

Gilbert kept walking, even as his brother called after him. He couldn’t talk about this, he wasn’t allowed. Besides, he needed to find Matthew. He needed to find his _husband_. After hours of frantic searching, he finally pinged Matthew’s phone and found him deep into the swamp, laying on his back, a joint still smoldering in his hand. The Canadian looked like he was passed out, possibly fighting a hangover. Gilbert wanted to get mad, but he was spread too thin. He simply sat down next to what was left of his greatest love, and sighed sadly. “Birdie…” he murmured.

At the sound of his voice, Canada stirred, “G-Gil?” then his eyes widened as he sobered up, and he frantically crushed out the joint, “Oh, _mon Dieu_ , I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- I didn’t _want_ to- Dammit all, I’m sorry!” He collapsed into shameful tears. Prussia pulled him into an all-enveloping hug, resting his chin on his husband’s head.

“Shh, shh,” Gilbert cooed softly, “It’s alright, Birdie, I’m not mad at you.”

“Y-you’re not?” Matthew sniffled, “But I was high again.”

“Oh, trust the awesome me, usually I’d be absolutely livid,” Gilbert half-joked, half-scolded, “But right now we have bigger problems than your on-again, off-again addiction.”

Matthew tried to compose himself, “Like what?”

Gilbert counted to three, then said, “Ludwig knows.”

Matthew’s eyes went wider, “Did you _tell-_ ”

“Nein! Of course not!” Prussia exclaimed indignantly, “I was sworn to silence, and silent I shall remain! But… he saw mein ring.”

“So he doesn’t know your with _me_ ?” Matthew questioned, “Just that you're with _someone_?”

“Ja,” Gilbert agreed.

“Okay, that’s better than I thought,” Canda sighed in relief.

“What do you want to do?” Gilbert asked him, “You know Ludwig won’t drop it…”

“I don’t know,” Matthew sighed, “For now, act like normal. I… need some time to think this through…”

“Ja, of course, Birdie,” Gilbert said placatingly, “Now hand over the lighter.”

Grumbling about it being expensive, Matthew tossed over the lighter. “Danke,” Gilbert said, and he chucked it as hard as he could through the swamp. “There,” Gilbert said, satisfied with himself, “Now you can’t smoke.”

Matthew, still lamenting the loss of his lighter, allowed Gilbert to pick him up in a bridal carry, and the Prussian carried him out of the swamp.

back with the present nations, Arthur and Ludwig looked vaguely ashamed, and Gilbert and Matthew smiled at them reasuringly.

"It's alright, Arthur," Matthew insisted, patting the Englishman's back supportively, "I figured it would've come out sooner or later."

"But you still didn't  _want_ to tell us," Arthur sighed, "You were forced to. That... that isn't right, Matthew."

"Well, look at it this way, Artie," Patrick smirked devilishly before the Canadian could answer, "At least Matthew doesn't hate you as much as I do." And, as if responding to Ireland's comment, the scene shifted to, of all things, a bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody! It's been a little while, hasn't it? Sorry, but I've got exams and stuff, and school just let out. I'll be back for a little while this week, but for the ext three weeks this is going to be on a sort-of hiatus, not for lack of want, but because I will be in a place that has no internet. Sorry for the inconvenience, but I'll try to get back to this ASAP!


	22. Another Irish Drinking Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ireland sings about how his family is dead to him. Meanwhile, Spain doesn't care.

The stench of alcohol was omnipresent, and the lights were on, but a little low. The crowd was clapping a slamming tankards on the bar in rhythm, and dancing on the bar itself was none other than Patrick Kirkland, otherwise known as the personification of the Republic of Ireland.

The Irishman looked incredibly drunk, as per usual, and to the bemusement of the gathered nations, he began to sing heartily while clapping his hands and stomping his foot to the rhythm that the other bar goers had set.

 

_ Gather 'round ye lads and lasses, set ye for a while _

_ and harken to me mournful tale about the Emerald Isle. _

_ Let's all raise our glasses high to friends and family gone, _

_ and lift our voices in another Irish drinkin' song! _

The bar goers cheered, and soon a few backup singers rose from the crowd, and Patrick began again, 

_ Consumption took me mother and me father got the pox! _

_ Me brother drank the whiskey 'till he wound up in a box! _

_ Me other brother in the troubles met with his demise, _

_ me sister has forever closed her smilin' Irish eyes! _

 

_ Now everybody's died! So until our tears are dried, _

_ we'll drink and drink and drink and drink and then we'll drink some more! _

_ We'll dance and sing and fight until the early mornin' light, _

_ then we'll throw up, pass out, wake up and then go drinkin' once again! _

_ Ken was killed in Kilkenny and Claire she died in Clare _

_ Tip from Tipperary died out in the Derry air. _

_ Shannon jumped into the river Shannon back in June _

_ Ernie fell into the Erne and Tom is in the Toome. _

_ "Cleanliness is godliness, " me Uncle Pat would sing; _

_ he broke his neck a-slippin' on a bar of Irish Spring! _

_ O'Grady he was eighty, 'tho his bride was just a pup; _

_ he died upon the honeymoon when she got his Irish up! (OI!) _

 

_ Now everybody's died! So until our tears are dried, _

_ we'll drink and drink and drink and drink and then we'll drink some more! _

_ We'll dance and sing and fight until the early mornin' light, _

_ then we'll throw up, pass out, wake up and then go drinkin' once again! _

 

At this point in the song, the bar goers broke into a heartfelt a capella, wordless version of the Mexican Hat Dance, and Rosa snorted in a bewildered amusement. France noticed, however, that the UK was very disturbed by the song, as if it had offended them in some way. Nonetheless, the song continued, this time with a speaking role from Patrick:

 

_ Joe Murphy fought with Reilly near the cliffs of Alderney; _

_ he took out his shillelagh and he stabbed him in the spleen! _

_ When Crazy Uncle Mike; thought he was a leprechaun, _

_ but in fact he's just a leper, and his arms and legs are gone! _

_ When Timmy Johnson broke his neck it was a cryin' shame _

_ (he wasn't really Irish, but he went to Notre Dame!). _

_ MacNamara crossed the street and by a bus was hit! _

_ But he was just a Scotsman, so nobody gave a shit! _

 

Allistor scoffed in disgust at the last verse, and Patrick smirked as the memory continued. The chorus was sung again, and at the end, the bar goers launched into a wordless rendition of  _ Hava Nagila _ , that had Israel rolling on the floor laughing. Past Ireland returned to singing:

 

_ Me drunken Uncle Brendan tried to drive home from the bar; _

_ the road rose up to meet when he fell out of his car! _

_ Irony was what befell me Great Grand Uncle Sam, _

_ he choked upon the very last potato in the land! _

 

_ Connor lived in Ulster town, he used to smuggle arms; _

_ until the British killed him and cut off his Lucky Charms! _

_ And dear old Father Flanagan who left the Lord's employ, _

_ drunk on sacramental wine beneath the altar boy! (HEY!) _

 

_ Now everybody's died! So until our tears are dried, _

_ we'll drink and drink and drink and drink and then we'll drink some more! _

_ We'll dance and sing and fight until the early mornin' light, _

_ then we'll throw up, pass out, wake up, and then go drinkin' once again! _

 

Now, all the bar goers went silent, save for the few backup singers that lowered it down to a soft “oo”, and Ireland continued, his voice much more soulful and serious:

 

_ Someday soon I'll leave this world of pain and toil and sin! _

_ The Lord will take me by the hand to join all of me kin. _

_ Me only wish is when the Savior comes for me and you... _

_ HE KILLS THE CAST OF  _ RIVERDANCE _ , AND MICHEAL FLATLEY TOO! _

 

Everyone launched into the song again, and this time, with a sense of finality and completion, sang the last chorus:

 

_ Now everybody's died! So until our tears are dried, _

_ we'll drink and drink and drink and drink and then we'll drink some more! _

_ We'll dance and sing and fight until the early mornin' light, _

_ then we'll throw up, pass out, wake up and then go drinkin' once again! _

_ Then we'll throw up, pass out, wake up and then go drinkin' once again! _

_ THEN WE’LL THROW UP, PASS OUT, WAKE UP, AND THEN GO DRIINKIIIN’, OOONCE AA--GAAAAAAAIN! OI! _

 

The song ended, and Patrick laughed as he fell backwards off the bar, slamming into the wooden floor and passing out, either from the excessive drinking or the mild concussion. The memory faded away, and now no one could ignore the looks passing between the British Isles. Patrick looked proud and challenging, Erin and Dylan looked resigned and worried, Allistor looked annoyed and displeased, and finally, Arthur looked absolutely livid. Before things could explode, however, poor, tactless Antonio yawned loudly and obnoxiously.

“Well, that was fun, no?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer, he left the room, saying, “I’m  _ exhausted _ . Didn’t even get a  _ siesta _ today, so I’m going to bed.”

The nations halfheartedly spurred themselves back to their rooms, and Patrick seemingly escaped confrontation with his siblings once more.

Antonio sighed as he arrived in his room, shutting the door and letting his expression fall, breathing a sigh of relief. He  _ hated _ prolonged interactions with the other nations, but he wasn’t allowed to leave, so here he was. He supposed he should be worried for Ireland and the rest of the British Isles, but truthfully he didn’t really care. He didn’t care about anything anymore. Except maybe Romano, he could never stop caring about Romano. Still, having one thing to live for wasn’t exactly an achievement. He used to have achievements, his Armada (sunk), his empire (fallen), his wealth (worthless), his history (disgraced). He liked coming home and being able to drop his mask, the nonchalant, carefree attitude that he used to make it seem like he was alright, so the others wouldn’t worry. So  _ Romano _ wouldn’t worry. Antonio couldn’t bear the thought of his angry Italian crush feeling guilty for his state of mind. Though, on his darkest days, he came to the realization that Romano was part of the problem. As it turned out, getting beaten and insulted every day for hundreds of years wasn’t exactly good for one’s self-esteem. Spain knew that Lovino only meant half of it, but every word still cut deeper than any blade he had faced in his considerably long life.

Giving a long-suffering sigh, he just flopped down into the bed and tried to go to sleep. In a different time, he might’ve tried to do something before bed, maybe read a book, or practice his swordplay, but now he didn’t care anymore. He hadn’t cared in a very long time. Antonio moaned halfheartedly and let the blackness take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is "Another Irish Drinking Song" by Da Vinci's Notebook. You're welcome.


	23. Night Terrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England reminisces on where his relationship with his brother fell apart. Meanwhile, Romulus once more repels his mysterious visitors.

England sighed as he curled up in bed with Francis' arms around him. Regardless o outward appearance, he did enjoy being the little spoon, as it allowed him to sink into the comfort of his lover's arms. Now more than ever, as Arthur's thoughts were consumed by the night he realized just how badly he'd fucked up his family:

Arthur and Francis practically leapt off the plane in Dublin, catching a cab to Patrick’s estate on the outskirts of the city. As they got out of the car, they heard shouting from inside the wood and stone house. Sighing, Arthur stomped up the steps and knocked on the door. The house went silent.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” Patrick’s voice asked, dangerously calm.

“Patrick, please, don’t freak out-” Erin pleaded, but Arthur heard Patrick already stomping up to the door, and the Irishman opened the door so fast Arthur was almost certain it would come off its hinges. The door appeared to be made of sterner stuff, however, as soon Arthur was faced with his fuming redhead brother, gripping the doorknob tight in his hand. Behind him, Erin, Allistor, and Dylan stood in various phases of distress. Dylan looked confused, Erin looked desperate, and Allistor looked strangely at peace. Patrick, however, looked to be that peculiar level of pissed off that caused the Irishman to smile broadly. “And the gang’s all _fucking here_! Goddamn brilliant!” Patrick exclaimed, his voice strained and cracking, “Please, you British bastard, come on in! Seems like the rest of the Bastard Brigade has already invited itself in!”

“And a fine hullo to you, too, Patrick,” Arthur responded in a dignified manner, “How are you?”

A vein pulsed in Patrick’s forehead as Arthur and Francis stepped inside. “Bonjour, _Irlande,_ ” Francis greeted cordially, and for the first time that day, the Irishman seemed to calm down.

“ _Dia dhuit,_  Frog,” Patrick smiled at him, “Didn’t expect you.”

Francis smiled wanly, “Well, you know I couldn’t let _Angleterre_ embarrass himself too badly.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow, “Now when has _that_ ever happened?” The two laughed together, but were interrupted by Arthur coughing into his fist. Patrick’s mood immediately soured at the reminder that his family was still in the room.

“Patrick,” Allistor started, “Let’s all go to the sittin’ room, aye?”

“Aye, let’s,” Patrick spat, leading the way into the small but cozy room. As they all took their seats, there was an uncomfortable silence as the rest of the UK stared at Ireland. France patted England’s hand supportively, and Arthur took a deep breath, beginning to speak.

“Stop!” Patrick held up his hand, “Whatever you’re about to say, Kinky Boots, I don’ care. Here’s the deal: I’m gonna go up to me room, get meself a drink, and go back to me life as usual. When I come back down, ye’d best be the fuck outta me house, or we’re gonna have a real damn problem. Am I understood?”

Arthur gritted his teeth, “Patrick, plea-”

“I _said,_ ” Patrick growled, standing up and over the Englishman, “Am. I. _Understood?_ ” The UK remained silent, stunned at the Irishman’s sudden ferocity. “That’s what I thought,” Patrick said coldly, and he turned away and marched up the steps, slamming his bedroom door behind him.

“Well,” Allistor observed dryly, “That went well.”

“This is no joking matter, Allistor!” Erin said to the Scotsman with a murderous glare.

“Erin, please, calm down!” Dylan pleaded weakly, already drained from his prolonged exposure to the Irish Twins.

“Damn it!” Arthur exclaimed suddenly, not giving his sister a chance to retaliate, “I thought I could do this!”

“Do what?” Francis asked, “Talk to Patrick?”

“Yes!” Arthur exclaimed, running a hand through his hair, “I thought that maybe, after all these years, that we had an understanding, that we’d both matured, that we weren’t blinded _by anger anymore_ , but I guess I was wrong! I thought that at the very least I could relate to him a little more, now that I know we have so much in common!”

“In common?” Allistor snorted, “You’re polar opposites, Artie.”

“That’s not true, not now that we know about _this_ ,” Arthur waved an empty bottle to prove his point. Soon, his siblings caught on to what he was saying, especially considering what he’d let slip over the phone.

“Artie…” Allistor began carefully, “Just what do you an’ Pat have in common?”

Arthur sighed as the fire drained from his limbs. Defeatedly, he sat back down next to Francis, who instinctually held his hand. He hung his head, and it struck the rest of the UK that they’d never seen Arthur like this. They’d never noticed how much he leaned on Francis for support, how tired he looked, how… old he looked. This was not the mighty seafaring conqueror that they were accustomed to, this was… just a man. Finally, after Francis encouraged him a little more, Arthur screwed his courage to the sticking place and said quietly, “Both Patrick and I have tried to kill ourselves.”

“What?” Allistor asked softly, and Erin began to tear up as Dylan just sat there, dumbfounded. “When?” Allistor pressed.

Arthur sighed, still refusing to meet his siblings’ gazes, and said, “Twice, actually. Once with a drink, the other with a gun.”

“Explain,” Allistor ordered, and Arthur obliged him.

“I suppose you’ve a right to know. The drink was after I lost Alfred. I was just so… I don’t even know. Sad, maybe? But I drank until I couldn’t move anymore. It was only after I woke up still at the bar that I realized I died from it. The gun was at the Battle of Passchendaele, when the war finally got to me. I’d just drowned in the mud and woken up, and I was so screwed up, I couldn’t take it anymore, and the gun was right there. I thought that maybe if I was screwed up enough, a bullet would finally do the job. I don’t know what I was doing, thinking that, but-” he choked back a lump in his throat, “You’re not supposed to _drown in the earth,_  Allistor.”

His siblings stared at him. “Oh, _Arthur,_ ” Erin sobbed, hugging her brother tight as she rushed forward to his side of the room, “I’m _so sorry_ we weren’t there for you!”

“It’s alright, Erin, really,” Arthur sighed fondly, patting his sister’s arm, “I’ve long since come to terms with it. Actually, it was Francis that helped me out of my funk. If it weren’t for him, well...”

Francis smiled appreciatively, and Wales patted the Frenchman on the back, saying, “I suppose we’ve got a lot to thank you for, Frog!” Allistor’s expression remained a stony mask of calm, and he didn’t move an inch from his seat. Without saying a word, he looked his brother in the eye. A silent exchange passed between the Scot and his southern brother, and Arthur smiled.

He stood up, reinvigorated, and said, “That’s it! I’m going up there, and I’m going to talk to Patrick and explain to him why I understand, and-!” At that moment, Patrick began singing from upstairs, a very familiar song. _Come Out Ye Black-an’-Tans._

The song was incredibly insulting to British soldiers who’d fought and bled in the Great War, and it infuriated Arthur something unbelievable. All goodwill forgotten, Arthur’s expression darkened, and Francis paled. “ _Angleterre,_ calm down, breathe-!” he pleaded, but the Englishman was already on the warpath. He stomped up the steps with an unfathomable rage, his siblings and lover calling mercies from behind him, and ripped Patrick’s door off its hinges. Without giving the Irishman any time to respond, he drew back his fist and slammed a mighty blow into his brother’s jaw, sending him sprawling across the room. “Fuck you, Patrick Kirkland!” Arthur snarled, and he stormed out of the house. Patrick only laughed in triumph as he left.

England sighed and snuggled closer to Francis, hoping to get some sleep. He’d have to resolve things with his brother eventually, he just didn’t know when. Or how.

Meanwhile, a few rooms down the hall, Romulus felt the stump of his left hand burn with a familiar fire. He turned apprehensively, and sure enough, there were his visitors again, standing in the flames. Now, though, a woman with plaited silvery blonde hair and a Celtic tunic and a blonde man with a braided beard and iron armor joined them, and the woman pointed an accusing finger at him. “This ends soon, Rome,” she declared, “You can’t hide what you did to our children forever!”

Rome snarled in defense, and the flames rose and swirled with his anger, “What are you talking about?” he questioned, “I raised your children up! Farther than they could’ve ever gone with you!”

The woman sighed forlornly, “My Albion always fancied himself King Arthur,” she sighed, pain flaring in her eyes, “Little did he know, he was Mordred.”  
“So what, does that make me Morgan LeFay? Do you expect me to admit that I was wrong, that I shouldn’t have done what I did? WELL?” The visitors remained silent. “NEVER!” he roared, “I will take this secret to the grave, again if I must! You can’t do this to me! I’m ROME, DAMMIT! I CONTROL THE FLAMES, _YOU CANNOT DO THIS TO ME!_ ” Romulus roared with rage as his spear and shield appeared once more, and he leapt at his visitors with the full intent of killing them all. Before he reached them, though, the flames flickered and vanished, and he was left in a dark room with nothing but a bloody nose and crushing sorrow. Romulus broke down crying, and sobbed insistingly, whispering into the dark where the flames used to burn, “You can’t do this to me… _I did nothing wrong…!_ ” His visitors didn’t answer him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready for the Ireland/Rome Arc? Also, Round 2 of "Who's That Ancient?"! (to the tune of "Who's That Pokemon?")
> 
>  
> 
> "Dia Dhuit"- Gaelic greeting


	24. Irish-American Relations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick begins to explain how intertwined his history is with America's, and Alexander gets a frightening reminder of who he used to be.

The nations filed into the conference room the next day, intending to delve into the broken, shattered histories of their comrades once more. Romulus looked unusually distraught, casting fervent glances between Germany, the Italies, Spain, Ireland, and England. He kept rubbing at the crude wooden apparatus that was his left hand, and had his usually smiling lips pressed tight into a thin line. Ireland, meanwhile, looked overconfident and smug, but anyone who actually knew the Irishman would know that he was internally freaking out about the fact that his deepest, darkest secrets were about to be ousted. Spain, for his part, looked bored.

“Alright then,” Alexander began, standing in front of the book, “Y’all ready?” A grim nod rippled through the room, and Alexander turned the page.

The nations found themselves in a green field, and Alexander went pale. A marching song could be heard, and from the northern side of the field came a column of soldiers in blue uniforms hoisting above them the colors of the United States of America and a green banner with a harp insignia that many of them didn’t recognize, except for Arthur, Alfred, Alexander, and Patrick. The Harp of Erin. Alexander and Patrick exchanged looks, and from the southern part of the field, another marching column of soldiers emerged, this one populated by men wearing grey coats, marching under a strange flag that had a red background and a blue cross filled with stars. Leading them, however, was none other than Alexander S. Jones, dressed in full regalia, and sporting both arms. This was Alexander in his prime, at the height of his power; this wasn't just the Southern US. This was the Confederate States of America. It dawned on the nations that they were finally seeing a glimpse of what happened during America’s infamous Civil War. 

Sweat trickled down Alexander’s face as he spotted his younger self, and he whimpered quietly. Only South Carolina noticed, and she placed a comforting hand on her father’s shoulder. It was hard for all the Southerners to come to terms with what they had done, but none of them were hit harder than Alexander himself. The two columns noticed each other, and panicked cries to battle resounded through the field. Union and Confederate soldiers started lining up to fire on the enemy in the impromptu battle that had just begun, and Past Alexander drew his officer’s sword as he ordered his men to fire. The sound of Enfield rifles rang through the lines like the crack of lightning, and across the field, many Union soldiers cried out as they were hit. The Union commanders called for return fire, and the soldiers obliged, opening fire on their  traitorous enemies. The Southerners screamed as the Springfields found their mark, and many in the lines fell to the Union’s bullets. “ADVANCE!” Alexander called, and the Confederates started marching forward, firing at will, and started calling with a strange, high-pitched caterwauling that reminded Jett of hyenas. 

"What _ is  _ that blasted noise!?" Arthur demanded irritably, covering his ears. 

Alexander found the courage to smile, "That, Arthur, is the Rebel Yell, the Battle Cry of the South."

"And, incidentally," Ireland chimed in, "Scary as hell when you're on the other side."

The soldiers on the Union side turned visibly pale at the sound of the Confederates' Rebel Yell, but still they marched on. Bullets tore across the field, piercing the air, and soon, the gunsmoke lay thick over the field, making it nigh impossible to see more than three feet in front of you. Soon, Union and Confederate soldiers started brawling hand to hand in the fog, and the nations zeroed in on Alexander, who easily cut down a Yankee with his sword and came face to face with none other than Patrick Kirkland, wearing a Union uniform. The present nations stared in confusion. After all, what was a European nation doing in America's civil war? As if to answer their questions, Past Alexander scowled at the Irishman, calling, "I thought I'd find you with the 69th. This ain't your fight, Patrick!"

Past Patrick growled and leveled his rifle, shouting back, "Alfred is my friend! He took my people into his land when no one else would! If I can lend him my strength, I will at every turn!"

In the present, Alfred smiled with warm surprise at the Irishman, who blushed slightly. 

Alexander growled, "Fine, then! Die with the rest of the Yankee bastards!" Alexander and Patrick yelled as they ran at each other, Patrick jabbing with his bayonet while Alexander spun to his back and swung down with his sword. The two brawled in the smoke, jabbing and firing, drawing blood and creating fresh bruises. Soon, though, the Confederacy gained the upper hand by grabbing Ireland's head with both hands and slamming Patrick's nose into his knee. Patrick staggered and fell backward on the grass, blood streaming down his face. Alexander doubled over, breathing heavily, and Patrick coughed as he struggled to rise. "He's tearin' himself apart, Alexander!" Patrick wheezed, and the Confederate's head snapped up, "You broke his heart! You and your damned Rebel brood!  _ You betrayed him! _ "

Alexander's face darkened as he seethed in rage. "You don't know what you're talking about, bog-trotter," he warned, and he started walking away from the Irishman.

"DAMN YOU, ALEXANDER JONES!" Patrick called from where he lay, "WE'LL BEAT YOU! ALFRED AND I'LL BEAT YOU ALL THE WAY BACK TO RICHMOND!"

Alexander ignored him, and the scene faded away. Arthur turned to his brother, and asked, "Patrick? This was America at one of the most reclusive times of his life. How the hell were  _ you  _ here?”

In response, Patrick only sighed and turned away from his brother, folding his hands behind his back in a decidedly British gesture. “Alfred and I have had each other’s back through everythin’,” Patrick began, “I cheered him on during the Revolution, and for a while his was the country with the most Irishmen in it, other than the Emerald Isle itself. Over a time… we became great friends, I believe.”

Alfred supplemented this by slapping Ireland on the back and loudly proclaiming, “The greatest, good buddy!” Patrick laughed this off, then returned to the gravity of the situation as he turned to face his brother. 

“To be perfectly honest with ye, Arthur, I didn’t hate you, not truly anyway,” Patrick sighed, “Not until you betrayed me and me kin. Me people. Me nation. I could stand for it no longer.” The Irishman’s eyes drifted to the floor.

“That’s preposterous!” Arthur exclaimed, “When did I ever ‘betray’ the people of Ireland!?”

Patrick looked up with nothing short of fury blazing in his emerald eyes. “You don’t  _ remember? _ ” he asked menacingly, and the white haze around them shimmered. Curiously, the heat seemed to rise as the scene changed, but nonetheless the nations found themselves in a poor man’s house, a racking cough sounding through the walls, soon followed by the unmistakable sound of retching.

From the depths of the home, Erin Kirkland came rushing through the halls with a bucket of cool water, and the past form of Patrick limped into the main room. Both Patrick and Erin looked deathly pale, and horrifyingly thin. Every single one of Patrick’s bones could be counted through his skin, and his normally vibrant red hair was dirtied and thin. His face looked gaunt and sick, and it struck the nations that Ireland looked like a man on death’s door. There was no mistake. This was the Irish Twins at the point in their history where they came the closest to death. The Great Potato Famine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAND WE'RE BACK! Guess what, everyone? I'm back from my long period of exile to the woods! (I took a job as a camp counselor and didn't have access to wifi for three weeks.) Now, onwards and forwards into the Ireland/Rome Arc!


	25. Split

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erin and Patrick split up.

The nations watched with interest as Erin raced forward to support Patrick.

“Patrick! You shouldn’t be up!” Erin scolded worriedly, helping her twin into a nearby chair.

Patrick coughed and wheezed as he let himself be lead into a seated position. After resting with a cool washcloth on his forehead, he looked his sister in the eye. “The potatoes. They’ve all failed,” he whispered hoarsely.

Erin, her greatest fears confirmed, sobbed a heart-wrenching, horrified sound. “What do we do now? Our people… they’ll starve!” she wailed.

Patrick groaned as his stomach growled viciously, “I don’t know Erin,” he confided in her.

Erin wiped her eyes on her apron, then got a hopeful look on her face, “Arthur!” she exclaimed, “Arthur can help us!”

“I just got back from London. Arthur isn’t helping us, Erin,” Patrick growled lowly.

Erin looked shattered. “Wh-what?” she asked brokenly, her voice small and lost.

“I said he  _ AIN’T HELPING! _ ” Patrick roared, struggling to stand, “That damn bastard thinks it’ll serve us right to starve a little, put us in our place!”

“That’s not true!” Erin retorted desperately, “Arthur saved us!”

“ARTHUR ENSLAVED US, ERIN!” Patrick bellowed, “HE BEAT US INTO SUBMISSION AND SAID WE WERE HIS! And now that we’re starving, he’s more than happy to let this particular thorn in his side shrivel and die…” Patrick stumbled and fell to the chair again, weak from hunger.

“Patrick!” Erin exclaimed, rushing to her brother’s side.

Patrick coughed and retched as tears glistened in his eyes. “All I want…” Patrick began quietly, “Is for me people to be safe. I want food that don’t make me sick. I want a bed to sleep in every night. I want every Irish babe to not have to starve to death because their mothers can’t give any milk! I want every lil’ Irish boy to grow up playing with sticks, not wonderin’ whether he’ll live through the day! I want a better life, Erin, not just for me, but for  _ all Ireland _ . And as long as Arthur’s in charge, that can’t happen.”

Erin looked at her brother with an unreadable expression. “Then what are you going to do, Patrick Kirkland?” she asked, half challenging, half fearing.

“The only thing I can,” Patrick sighed sadly, “I’m getting out.”

“Wh- _ what? _ ” Erin asked in bewilderment. This was not the answer she was expecting, “You’re  _ giving up _ on Ireland? Y-you can’t do that! You’re the personification!” The nations shared Erin's surprise. It was unheard of for a personification to abandon their land.

Patrick refused to meet her eyes, “I know what I am, Erin. I’m not tethered to the land, and I don’t represent a damn rock! I represent the people of Ireland, wherever they may go. And… I’ve pointed them in the right direction.”

“Patrick…” Erin asked, “Where are you going…?”

Patrick feebly dug through his pocket to produce a travel pamphlet for the United States of America. “The New World,” Patrick said, “I’m great friends with Alfred, I’m sure he’ll take us in. People have already left on boats for whatever measly fares they could scrounge. A few of the poorer ones actually committed crimes so that they’d be sent to Australia. The people are already on their way out, Erin… I’m just going with them. Watching over them. And… I’m asking you… please, come with us.”

Erin stared at her twin speechlessly. Then her mouth set in a grim line, and her eyes looked as hard as flint. “Absolutely not. Arthur is our family, whether you like it or not. And Family always sticks together. I refuse to give up on Ireland, and if I have to become the sole personification, then sobeit. This famine  _ will _ end, and when it does, I will be here to see it,” Erin stood up haughtily and turned her back on her brother, saying over her shoulder, “Now if you’re going to America I recommend you get going.”

Patrick hung his head in shame, and the nations watched as the scene shimmered away, and Arthur was left speechless.


	26. The New Colossus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick arrives in America.

The scene shifted, and the nations found themselves on a ship. It was hot, dirty, and cramped, and millions of poor paupers in tattered rags that passed for clothes huddled together in the dark. The soft rocking of the waves eased off, and some of the passengers that had looked a little green started to regain their color. Soon, the nations noticed Patrick, still painfully thin, but now hopeful as a crewman entered the steerage to compartment to give an announcement. “We’ve entered New York Harbor. You’ve all reached your destination.” 

As soon as the word was given, dozens, if not hundreds, sprang up and rushed towards the door, Patrick being one of the first ones ondeck to see the magnificent sight. Patrick sprinted along the wood of the deck, nearly knocking over other passengers, and just caught himself on the ship’s rail, and laughed as he saw it. Other Irish refugees flocked around him, cheering in jubilee as they set their eyes upon it. On the horizon, the soaring towers of New York City came into full view, and the Irish set their eyes upon their new home for the first time. THe main spectacle, however, was in the center of the harbor, gleaming in the rising sun. Standing firm with her torch held aloft, the Statue of Liberty stood proud at the gates of the New World, and Patrick cheered. 

Patrick began quoting a poem, one that he’d heard when Alfred had told him on one of their many adventures together. “ _Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,_ ” he began, “ _With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand a mighty woman with a torch, whose flame is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command the air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. ‘Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!’ cries she with silent lips. ‘Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’_ ” 

In the present, Alfred glowed with pride, “ _The New Colossus!_ ” he exclaimed, “You remembered!”

“Of course I remembered!” Patrick scoffed, “It meant so much to me. It signified our bond of friendship, that you’d help me when I came. When I saw Lady Liberty, gleaming bronze there in New York Harbor, I was so grateful to be alive, in a New World that wouldn’t beat me down to dust anymore. It was beautiful and glorious.”

Alfred smiled warmly, putting a hand on the Irishman’s shoulder, “It was the only way I could repay you after you helped me so much in the Civil War.”

At this point Alexander also smiled at Patrick, “And a damn fine job you did, too.”

Patrick grinned in acknowledgement, then looked back at the others. The other assembled nations had to admit, the Statue of Liberty was an inspiring sight, and suddenly, Gilbert gasped and snapped his fingers. “THAT WAS WHY!” he exclaimed.

“Wh-what?” Matthew asked bewilderedly, ears still ringing from the explosion of sound that had occurred right next to them.

“Alfred!” Gilbert exclaimed, “I get it now! Back when you tried to save me from Russia, you kept bartering until you got to Lady Liberty! I understand now why you couldn’t give it up!”

Comprehension dawned in the American’s eyes, and he turned sadly to the giant statue. “You’re right,” he said wistfully, “If I had to, I’d let it all fall away. The White House, the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, Mt. Rushmore… I love them all, but none of them matter more than Lady Liberty. If nothing else, when people come to my country, I want them to see that statue, hear that poem, and realize that the USA is the land of freedom, and of hope. I can’t promise everyone an easy time, and I can’t promise that everything will be perfect forever, but I _can_ and _always will_ promise that no matter what wars and strife plague me and my people, _it will get better_ . There’s another quote I like about my country, from a song, _The Battle Cry of Freedom_. The line is ‘Though he may be poor, not a man shall be a slave.’ Lady Liberty stands for everything I believe, and I will never let her be torn down. It tore me apart to let you fall to Russia, General, but I couldn’t let the symbol of my country’s hope be destroyed. Even if we have nothing else, America must always have hope.” 

Alfred looked down as a single tear rolled down his cheek, which he quickly wiped away. All of the nations and states crowded around him, supporting him.

“You were right, America,” Gilbert said, “It is too important to risk. You made the right decision, and I forgive you.”

“I’d never have a better brother or a better neighbor than you!” Matthew smiled at him.

“We’ll always work hard to make sure that America stays that way,” Alan assured his father, tugging at the lapels of his suit haughtily.

“Your hope is your greatest quality, mate,” Jett grinned, smiling at his older brother.

“You were the one that showed me the wonders of the world, Alfred-kun,” Kiku said softly, “Without you, I’d still be in isolation. I’d have never have seen all the beautiful things I have in this world. I would’ve never made friends…” He looked at Ludwig and Feliciano, who smiled at him assuringly.

“You’ve gone farther than I could’ve ever dreamed, Alfred, and I couldn’t be prouder,” Arthur said warmly.

“Your nation stands for ideals that the Old World had long since abandoned,” Ludwig told him sagely, “You reminded us of hope again.”

“I was wrong to ever doubt you, Alfred,” Alexander admitted, “You were right all along. America is stronger together.”

“You gave me a home when no one else would,” Patrick assured his best friend, “For that, I will never be able to repay you.”

Alfred smiled, thanking God for such kind friends for about the millionth time, “Thanks, guys. But please, this is Ireland’s story, not mine.”

The nations caught themselves, and turned back to the scene on the ship. It was docking now, and Patrick had gathered his meager belongings and was nigh running down the gangplank to the beautiful land of Ellis Island. There, standing in a pinstripe suit indicative of the Roaring Twenties with a much younger New York by his side (in an adorable matching suit, which his sisters cooed over) and holding up a sign that said PATRICK KIRKLAND in big, bold lettering, Alfred stood smiling up at his old friend.

As the gate agent removed the rope keeping people onboard, Patrick took a few wobbling steps toward Alfred, smiling from ear to ear with the gratefulness only refugees could understand, then collapsed crying into the American’s arms. Patrick wept with joy, and a slightly bewildered but understanding Alfred patted him on the back reassuringly. “Shh, shh, you’ve done it man,” he cooed softly, “You’re safe. You’re in the New World. Welcome to the United States of America.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I love my country. This got really sappy really fast, and maybe it was a bit of the sleep deprivation talking, but I enjoyed writing it. I hope you guys like it too, because this is how I see America. Welcoming and hopeful, but still challenging. The line I swear by is a quote from the Declaration of Independence, written by Thomas Jefferson, and it says that all of the people on Earth, not just in America, are entitled to "Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness." These three principles are the backbone of American society, and I hope that they resonate with you all. Best wishes from the US of A!


	27. Getting the Story Straight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oops.

The scene shifted to Alfred's apartment in New York City, where it was evident that some time had passed. Patrick and Alfred were sitting at a small kitchen table, sorting through their mail. Patrick looked much healthier, looking more thin than gaunt, and was wearing a simple beige striped dress shirt, a burgundy beret, and corduroy slacks with suspenders. Alfred looked like he was dressed for a more formal occasion, dressed in a navy blue cotton suit indicative of the Turn of the Century. Arthur frowned thoughtfully. Past Alfred hummed boredly as he sifted through the countless leaflets, envelopes, and solicitations, muttering “Who knew being a government official meant you received so much damned mail?”

Patrick made a vague sound of agreement, not quite paying attention. In a different room, there was the sound of children laughing as much younger versions of Pennsylvania, New York, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and New Jersey ran by, swatting at each other with sticks. They laughed as they ran by their elders and out the door, calling, “Hi, Dad! Hi, Uncle Patrick! We’re going outside!”

Alfred half-stood, a worried expression on his face, calling “Wait, kids! Be careful, don’t go in the street--! Ah, damn it!” Alfred swore as his children ignored him and ran out the door. “Oh, the Northeast… where did I go wrong, Pat?”

Patrick chuckled heartily, saying, “Go on, Alfred. You should probably check to make sure they don’t get hit by a car or anything.”

“You’re right, and I hate it when you’re right,” Alfred acknowledged begrudgingly, “Stay here and keep going through the mail, I’ll be back in a bit.” 

Patrick hummed an unenthusiastic agreement, turning back to the undesirable task of going through the mail. He came upon a thick envelope with several stamps, and an old fashioned wax seal. Patrick went pale, he’d know that seal anywhere. It was the sigil of the Royal Family of the British Empire. Patrick opened it fervently, and read over it quickly. “War…” he breathed, his voice barely a whisper, “God, no. I won’t go back. I can’t. I refuse!” Patrick stood up with sudden rage, taking out his lighter and burning the letter on the spot, throwing the flaming paper into the fireplace. However, Arthur was able to see the letter just long enough to read the date, _August 4th, 1914_. Just then, Alfred came back in, looking disheveled and exasperated after having to deal with his rowdy children. “What was that?” he asked, eyeing the burning letter.

“Nothing,” Patrick said too quickly, “Absolutely nothing.” Alfred frowned a little before shrugging and sitting back down, and the memory started to shift.

“WAIT JUST A DAMN MINUTE!” Arthur exclaimed suddenly, “This is all wrong!”

The nations stared at him. “Wh-what?” Romulus asked, bewildered, “The book is never wrong!”

“It has to be!” Arthur insisted, “I know I was a twat back then, but I was at least paying attention to the date! The Great Potato Famine was in the 1840s, the American Civil War was in the 1860s, the Statue of Liberty wasn’t completed until the 1880s, America was wearing clothing from the 1920s, and this last scene apparently took place in the 1910s! WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON!?!”

“Ah, aye, I think I can explain that,” Patrick said, scratching the back of his neck bashfully,  “See, that was actually the _second_ time I went to America. The first was during the Famine, aye, but _that_ was during the Revolution.”

Arthur barely contained his rage. “Then why didn’t it show us the first bloody time!? That makes no sense, to jump from the 1840s to the 1920s!”

“I actually think I can explain that one,” Alexander spoke up solemnly, raising his remaining hand, “For whatever reason, this book is waiting to tell my and Alfred’s stories. Patrick’s story is very intertwined with ours, so maybe it’s just… waiting for the right time? Leaving some revelations for later?”

The gathered nations nodded and 'ohhh'-ed in comprehension, and Arthur grumbled as he came down from his rage high. “I still say it makes no bloody sense, but carry on, I suppose,” he muttered to himself quietly. Francis patted his arm patronizingly.

With that out of the way, the scene successfully shifted to the familiar narrow, winding streets of Dublin. The attention-grabber, however, was that the Irish capital was in ruins, and the sounds of screams and gunfire were all around. Then, out from the haze, a battle-hardened Patrick stepped forth, a tattered Irish tricolor in is hands. And right behind him, none other than Alfred F. Jones hefted a rifle.

Arthur’s eyes widened. “No…” he breathed, “Impossible… you never joined the revolution!”

“ _America_ didn’t,” Alfred sighed, looking his father in the eye, “But _I_ did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might have, maybe, probably, definitely have been a way to clean up the timeline because I got my dates wrong and didn't realize until it was too late. Here, have a plot twist!


	28. Come Out, Ye Black-an'-Tans!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Irish Revolution comes to a head in Dublin.

The scene played as Patrick and Alfred walked into the clearing, and on the other side, none other than Erin, Allistor, and Dylan strode through the smoke. Allistor started at the sight of Alfred, then got a look of resignation on his face. “I’d heard that a few Americans had joined with the rebels outta’ bleedin’ hearts, but I’d hoped you weren’t one of ‘em, Alfie.”

Past Alfred winced at the childhood nickname his uncle used, reminding him of a simpler time, long-past. “I had to repay Patrick for all he’s done for me,” he told the Scotsman, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I think I understand just fine…” Scotland sighed, “Something to do with Alexander’s sudden disappearance?” Alfred paled visibly.

“Keep Ale-- keep him out of this,” Alfred demanded, but it came out more like a plea.

Allistor sighed sadly. He’d grown quite fond of the Southerner, as many of his people called Dixie home. Now, he was being forced to fight his nephew. “I don’t blame you for doin’ this Alfred,” he sighed, “Just that you had to do it.”

“I’m glad you understand…” Alfred admitted carefully. 

With that out of the way, Allistor turned to Patrick. “Patrick, come home…” he pleaded, his voice uncharacteristically soft, “Arthur’s worried about you.”

“Arthur’s  _ worried about me? _ ” Patrick scoffed, “I think everyone knows that’s a bald-faced lie, Allistor. At least  _ try _ to make it seem like you care!”

Allistor looked, hurt, but now Erin spoke up. “Patrick, please, you don’t understand--”

“What I don’t  _ understand _ , Erin,” Patrick shouted at her, “Is why you’re on that side of the square! We should be doing this together, a free, republican Ireland! Like America!”

“I’m flattered, but please leave me out of this…” Alfred muttered nearly inaudibly, and Erin bit her lip.

“Patrick, I understand your grievance with Arthur, really, I do,” she started, trying to placate him, “But  _ right now _ isn’t the best time for this!”

“What the fuck are you on about?” Patrick sneered, “There’s no  _ better  _ time! Arthur’s weak from the war, he won’t be able to stop me!”

“RAAARGH!!” Dylan sprang forward, taking Patrick by the neck, and everyone stared in horror as Wales and Ireland grappled on the cobbled street. This was unprecedented. Wales was calm and softspoken, he never rose his voice, he never disagreed, and he certainly never tackled anyone in the street. “You DON’T GET IT!!” the Welshman shouted into Patrick’s face, “Arthur, Allistor, and I just went through Hell itself! You weren’t in the trenches, you never fought the Germans, or the Austrians, or the Ottomans! You never did a damn thing except sit here with your fucking thumb in your ass, figuring out the best way to piss us off!! Really, the Easter Rising, the local rebellions, do you realize how much Arthur already had on his plate, and how much he  _ couldn’t deal with this!?! _ ”

Patrick gritted his teeth after multiple concussions, and pushed his older brother off, gasping for air. “All I know is that Arthur sent my men off to die in a senseless war I didn’t ask for,” he growled back, “And that I’ve had enough of being treated like a servant! I’m no secretary, Dylan! I AM A WARRIOR!!” Patrick leapt at his Welsh counterpart and smashed the pole of the flag he was holding over Dylan’s head. Then, he spun a drew a pistol from his hip, shouting “NOW! _TIOCFAIDH_ _  AR LA!! _ ”

From around them, several armed men bearing the mark of the Irish Republican Army emerged from the fog, crying “ _ Tiocfaidh ar la! _ ”, or, when translated from Gaelic, “Our day will come!”

Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland looked desperately at Alfred, waiting to see what he would do, and Alfred hefted his gun, and said, a little regretfully, but convicted, “ _ Tiocfaidh a la. _ ” “Their day will come.” 

Scotland sighed, lowering his head, then looked up with nothing short of contempt. “You were a good boy, Alfred,” he said menacingly, “Shame you turned out to be such a shit man.” Alfred scowled, and the Scotsman and the American ran at each other. As the battle began, the Black-an’-Tans and Ulster Volunteers appeared on the scene and joined Dylan and Erin to face off with Patrick and his IRA.


	29. Shellshock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Britain throws a tantrum.

With the warcries of the British Isles still echoing through the streets of Dublin, the scene shimmered away into a hazy white fog. “You were there?” Arthur asked Alfred quietly, and Alfred almost didn’t hear him.

“What?” the American asked.

Arthur’s gaze snapped up to meet his, and for the first time since the War of 1812, Alfred was well and truly afraid of his father. “I  _ said _ ,” Arthur began again, “ _ You were there? _ You helped Patrick and his damned rebel brood break me down to dust, even though you and I had  _ finally _ , after so many years, healed our relationship!? You would break my trust like that!?!”

Alfred looked at a loss for words, his lips opening and closing several times, and Massachusetts came to his father’s defense, saying “Watch it, redcoat! That’s my father you’re speaking to!”

Arthur glared at him. “ _ Hold your tongue, upstart! _ ” he warned the state, his eyes beginning to glow a fiery red, “ _ I destroyed your capital before, I can do it again! _ ” Romulus paled at the sight of his former charge’s eyes. He recognized that power all too well…

Massachusetts paled at the memory of how the British had burned Boston during the Revolution, and Patrick interjected in the conversation, shouting, “That’s too far, Arthur! He’s just a damn kid!”

Arthur turned back to the Irishman, shouting, “AND THAT REMINDS ME!!” His voice started reverberating with power, and his eyes glowed brighter. Romulus nodded to himself. There was no mistaking it.

Arthur shoved a finger in his brother’s chest, continuing to rant, saying “I AM THE BRITISH FUCKING EMPIRE, AND YOU WILL SHOW ME RESPECT!! IT’S MY BLOODY DOING THAT YOU’RE EVEN A COUNTRY IN THE FIRST PLACE, SO DON’T PUSH YOUR DAMNED IRISH LUCK!!”

Ireland, for his part, didn’t back down, shouting back, “WRONG, ARTIE! You  _ used _ to be the British Empire. Now, you’re just the bloody United Kingdom. A United Kingdom, may I remind you, that does  _ not _ include Ireland!”

Arthur glared at him, “ _ HOW DARE YOU!!!” _ he shouted, “ _ YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHO I AM, OR WHAT I WENT THROUGH!! NOT EVERYONE GOT TO SIT AROUND IN THEIR CAPITALS, PATRICK, SOME OF US ACTUALLY HAD  _ WARS _ TO FIGHT!! _ ” The mist shimmered in response to the Brit’s anger, and a new scene began to form.

As the fog started to shift, Romulus spotted a dark, vaguely human shape in the fog, with long, shoulder-length hair, pointing at him accusingly, and his eyes widened with fear. The figure disappeared, however, as the next horrific image formed. It was of Arthur, dressed in a Royal Army uniform, trekking through the mud-dominated passages of Paschendale. Gunfire split the air, and the constant thrum of the artillery created a dull background noise that barely crept into the consciousness, but was omnipresent all the same. As the nations watched, Arthur stepped on the next wooden plank, and the board snapped clean in two. Arthur cried out as he fell into the mud, his whole body disappearing into the earth within seconds. The nations watched with intent fear, waiting to see what would happen. The mud churned as the Brit struggled to regain his altitude, but then it went sickeningly still. A cold wind blew through Paschendale, and the nations knew that the Brit had drowned. Then the mud started churning, then it went still again after an agonizing amount of time. Francis began to tear up at the sight of what had given his beloved so many nightmares over the decades. The mud churned, then stopped. Churned, stopped, churned, stopped, rinse, wash, repeat, until finally, a gloved hand broke the surface. It clawed desperately at the air, and the nations looked hopeful, for this was the time that Arthur would finally pull himself out, but then they felt their collective stomachs drop as even the free hand fell deathly still. For a few more moments, nothing happened, until finally, the hand started waving wildly again, and Arthur grabbed hold of a second wooden board, using it to pull himself up and out of the mud. He gasped and spluttered for air, falling over on his side as he coughed up mud on the wood in front of him. Shakily, he tried to get to his feet, only to fall right back down again, his legs failing him. Arthur lay on his side like a dead fish, his chest heaving for air, his movements frantic but weak. Finally, as the shuddering slowed to a horrifying halt, Arthur let loose a guttural moan of agony that only those among the gathered nations that had participated in trench warfare could understand. As Arthur began crawling back toward his lines, his eyes fell upon a muddied pistol lying in No Man’s Land, discarded early on by some poor bastard who’d been a part of a fatal charge. 

Allistor, Dylan, Francis, and Erin knew what was about to happen, but the others could guess. War was a horrid thing, it warped the mind and ground people down to dust, and for someone who had faced it so many times as Arthur had, especially the Great War, this was an inevitability. Arthur fervently grabbed the pistol, curling into a ball and shakingly bringing it to his head. “ _ Please… _ ” he croaked brokenly, and he squeezed the trigger. Blood pooled into the mud, and as Past Arthur’s form lay unmoving on the ground, Present Arthur dropped to his knees, all display of power evaporating around him.

Francis turned to him, fearing the worst, and sure enough, Arthur began to choke. 

“What’s wrong with him!?” Alfred asked, alarmed, and Francis reacted like lightning to catch Arthur from falling over, muttering soothing words.

Around them, different images formed of Arthur’s different episodes. One showed him in London, as a bomb dropped on the city during World War Two. On top of the intense pain that comes with the harm on a nation’s capital, Arthur also devolved into a choking fit, convulsing against a wall as the explosions triggered memories of the war. Ludwig paled, realizing that  _ he _ had been the one to cause this.

The next showed Arthur as he accompanied troops in the Suez Canal, and as the battle began with the Egyptian forces, Arthur went pale and stumbled to his knees, clutching at his throat and failing his duty as commander.

The third showed him during the Falklands War, Arthur was aboard a Navy ship and gave the order to open fire, then locked himself in his quarters, closing his eyes and fearfully waiting for the thunder of the guns to start, then going into a fit of convulsing once more as the PTSD kicked in.

Finally, and most devastatingly, was a scene in Dublin, the Irish capital, as Arthur first entered the country to quell the rebellion. The car bombs went off around him, and the Black-and-Tans surrounding him had to catch him as he fell, this fit being the worst of all of them, as the Brit clutched at his throat and stared wildly at the exploding cars and flaming streets, a scene all too familiar to him.

Patrick shivered as he watched all this, then turned to the prone form of his brother on the floor, as Francis was frantically trying to get him to breathe, and in that moment, the Irishman’s rage broke. With his brother in such a pitiful state, there was no way he could find it in himself to hate him anymore. By no means did he regret what he had done, he still felt totally justified in his movement for independence from an oppressive system that  _ didn’t work _ , but now… well, now maybe he finally felt like family relations could start being healed.

From the tangle of crowded nations surrounding Arthur, a cheer of rejoicing arose as the Englishman finally took a full breath and began breathing again. “I- I- I’m- I’m alright,-- I’m alright, Francis…” Arthur gasped, still holding his hand to his throat out of principle, “I’m alright now.”

Francis, who had been tearing up throughout this entire ordeal, ignored him and hugged his lover tight to his chest, making the Englishman splutter in protest, then begrudgingly accept the embrace. Hawaii squealed with delight at this sight, muttering something about “FrUK” fanfiction, and Kiku eyed her suspiciously. Allistor helped Arthur to his feet, and Patrick strode forward to meet him.

The two brothers stared at each other, equally uncomfortable. “So…” Arthur began awkwardly, “Now you know everything.”

“So do you,” Patrick conceded.

“Yes…” Arthur agreed, “I do.”

A silence passed between them, and Patrick sighed, saying, “I don’t regret what I did, Arthur, but I do regret that you and I were caught on two different sides.” 

Arthur hummed an agreement, “I admit, I was a… difficult person to be related to. I always have been.”

“Got that right,” Allistor muttered from the sidelines, and Erin shot him a look, which he shrugged off irritably.

Patrick rubbed the back of his neck, and said, “I guess what I’m saying is… I hope we don’t have to be enemies anymore.”

Arthur smiled, “I’d… I’d like that.” The two smiled supportively at each other.

“Wait a minute,” Erin sighed resignedly, striding forward to meet her brother, “I still have one question for you, Patrick. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve had a bottle in your hands and whiskey on your breath. A few short weeks ago, I learned that you actually died from it. I thought it was something to do with Arthur, but I need to know… Patrick, why do you do this to yourself?”

Patrick stared at his sister, eyes wide as she said what she did, then sighed defeatedly and turned away. “That one’s… a long story…” he said sadly, “About Mom. About  _ him _ .” He jerked his head at Romulus.

Romulus’s eyes widened as he realized what was happening as the mist began to shimmer into the image of a small wood-and-straw hut. He whirled around in a panic, and sure enough, a clear image of the woman he so dreaded appeared fleetingly in the mist, pointing at him accusingly once more. “No longer,” she mouthed, then disappeared. Romulus felt a cold stone of fear in his gut as image solidified, and a familiar commanding voice called out “Cymru! Alba! Eire! Albion! Get in here! Supper’s ready!!”

As the young children ran inside, many recognized infant versions of Wales, Scotland, Ireland, and England respectively, as they all gathered around a woman with silvery blonde plaited hair and a simple wool tunic, holding a pot of savory smelling stew. Romulus felt the cold stone grow heavier as he remembered her name.  _ Fiona _ . 

“Mother…” Scotland breathed, and Wales put a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

Ireland sighed as he saw her, and England only looked puzzled. “That’s not right…” he murmured to himself, “I don’t remember this at all. Who is that?”

“What do you mean ‘Who’!?!” Scotland demanded, “That’s our mother, you bastard!”

“It can’t be!” Arthur insisted, “I don’t remember this woman at all, and I’m certain I never went by the name ‘Albion’!”

“You used to…” Ireland told him sadly, “Before  _ he _ took you.”

“Who?” Arthur demanded, the conversation both confusing and enraging him. How dare they insinuate that he didn’t even know his own mother!?

“Me,” Romulus told him simply, and all the assembled nations turned to the Ancient as he spoke from the back of the group, “She was the personification of the Celts. Your mother.”

Arthur stared at the old man that had been his guardian for so long. “But… you told me my mother died in childbirth…” he said cautiously, and the mist started to shimmer uncertainly.

“I did tell you that,” Romulus admitted, his voice becoming strained. Was it getting hotter? “But it was a lie,” he continued. Yes, it was definitely hotter than before. Could it be…? “Oh, gods…” Romulus realized, and the flames shot up from around them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the Mid-Arc Finale has arrived!! (Fear not, there will be no noticeable lull in posting... I think...) Feel free to speculate in the comments!


	30. Ancient Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ancients intervene in the plans of Romulus, who has apparently gone rogue from the rest of his counterparts.

The nations cried out in alarm as the image was snatched away, replaced by the soaring flames surrounding them. They soared higher and higher, and Romulus whirled around in circles, his eyes wide and fearful before that fear gave way to unyielding rage. A spear and shield appeared in his hands, and Romulus roared as the flames encroached upon the group.

Dark, hazy, images started breaking through the fog as the nations instinctively huddled together, back to back, and Prussia gasped. “ _ Vater!? _ ” he exclaimed, staring at a tall man with long blonde hair standing in the flames. Sure enough, it was Germania, the Ancient father of the Germanic Brothers.

“There!” Wales cried as he spotted his mother, the Ancient Celtica, standing alongside Germania.

“It… cannot be…” Sweden gasped as he spotted a tall, muscular man with a braided blonde beard. The father of all the Nordics, and the personification of the Vikingers; the Ancient Skandia.

Denmark blanched as he spotted a young man with long, burgundy hair and a circular bronze shield. “O- Onkel Byzantium…?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. Turkey, however, heard him, and his eyes widened in recognition.

Israel almost cried as he spotted a woman with jet black hair and bronze skin toned by the desert sun. His mother, the former personification of the Jews, the Ancient Judea.

Italy frowned as he saw an elderly man in the pontifical vestments, carrying a short wooden staff. After all, what was his father, Vatican City, doing among the Ancients?

The Ancients didn’t stop there, either. Several men and women with Hellenic armor and weaponry appeared, along with those with proto-European apparel. They surrounded the nations silent and solemn, and Romulus glared daggers at them all.  “Damn it,” Romulus swore, “Damn it! DAMN IT, DAMN IT, DAMN IT, DAMN IT, DAMN IT!!”

“Grandpa Rome…?” Feliciano asked tentatively.

Byzantium stepped toward his father, a look of pain on his face, “ _ Pater… _ ” he started, his voice betraying the intense love he had for the man that had been his idol for so long, “Please, don’t make this harder than it already is!”

Romulus swung his gaze to his prodigal son, and the rage that had consumed him melted. “ _ Basilius… _ ” he breathed, “ _ Mi fili… _ ” 

Then, Germania stepped forward. “Come quietly, Rome…” the old barbarian king said carefully, “We don’t want a fight…”

“A fight?” Romulus turned to his old enemy, “Why, whatever gave you that impression,  _ old friend? _ ” The familiar spear and shield combo shimmered into the old Roman’s hands.

Celtica bristled, drawing an arrow from her quiver and laying it on her longbow, but then a Greek man with blue armor and a shield bearing an owl insignia stopped her, “Slow down, Fiona…” he warned, “We need to be smart about this.”

“Athens!” Romulus said with mocking cordiality, as if he were greeting an old friend he hadn’t seen in a while, “How lovely of you to join us! Finally over your feelings of superiority?”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” A burlier Greek man in red armor muttered, an almost identical twin to Athens.

“And the prodigal asshole returns!” Romulus exclaimed, “Wonderful to see you again Sparta! Tell me, how did that Laconic War go for you again?”

Sparta growled and moved to unsheath his spear, but his twin stopped him. “Romulus, please,” Athens implored him, “Return to Heaven, and we will settle this democratically. You will receive your punishment for composing the book, and this doesn’t have to end in bloodshed!”

“Wait just a damn minute!” Arthur exclaimed, and the Ancients turned to face him, as if they had just noticed him for the first time.

“What do you want, you… you, ah… who are you, again?” Athens trailed off, failing to think of Britain’s name.

“Arthur Kirkland, personification of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, thank you very much!” Arthur informed him irritably, “And I thought this whole book business was your bloody idea in the first damned place!”

“The Ancient Council never authorized this…  _ excursion _ at all,” Germania interjected, “Rome acted of his own accord and broke the High Law. And now, he needs to pay.”

“Well, wait…” said a new, small voice, and every nation, state, and Ancient turned their gazes to none other than Olivia Jones, the personification of the great state of Virginia. “Seems to me that Romulus has done nothing but good ‘round here,” the eldest state went on, and Celtica scoffed.

“Romulus has lied to history as a whole!” she cried, “Worse still, he kidnapped one of my own and brainwashed him! Took him from me and my kind! He reshaped the world in his image, a right he never had! He played God, and now he must pay!”

“I wasn’t saying that he was a good person,” Virginia shot back at the Ancient, “I’m  _ saying _ that Romulus has really helped us understand each other more! It might be a little painful now, but this book has told us all nothing but the truth!”

“You mean Romulus’s _version_ of the truth,” Celtica supplied, but then there was an outcry from the rest of the present nations.

“No, it’s all been correct!” Alfred defended his neice.

“We can vouch for it, we were there!” Gilbert agreed.

“It’s been remarkably accurate,” Noah nodded sagely.

Patrick rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, “It  _ has _ all been right, as much as I hate the bastard.”

The Ancients stared at their modern counterparts, dumbfounded. Never before had they been questioned, let alone flat out denied. This was unprecedented, and it… spoke volumes to the true nature of Romulus’s behavior.

“Look,” Virginia said commandingly, standing at the front of the group. The Ancients subconsciously directed their attention to her, as the state just had that kind of effect on people, “Let’s try an experiment. Y’all just stay with us and view the next story, then you can decide whether or not Romulus is worthy of ‘punishment’.”

Romulus stared in awe of the state. Tears began rolling down his cheeks, and a watery smile graced his lips. “ _ Gratias, gratias, gratias!!” _ he cried out in Latin, “ _ Gratias Optimas tibi ago! _ ” For as long as the old empire could remember, he’d had to fight to be accepted, no one had ever stood up for him out of the kindness of their heart before, and for the first time in millennia, Romulus felt overwhelming gratitude for someone he might have once considered beneath him.

After watching this exchange, Germania, who seemed to be taking on the role of leader for the group of Ancients, considered Virginia’s offer. “On one condition,” he said finally.

“Name it,” Virginia responded.

“The next tale will be Romulus’s,” Germania declared, and Celtica got a cruel grin on her face as Romulus paled.

“I-I don’t think that’s a god ide-” Romulus began, but Fiona cut him off.

“What’s the matter, Romulus?” Fiona asked mockingly, “Afraid of the  _ truth? _ ”

Romulus looked fearfully from one nation to the next, then, realizing he was beaten, gave in. “Alright, you win,” he sighed, and the mist started shimmering to a scene of a Hellenic city-state overlooking a vast ocean, “But don’t blame me for what you see. The story of Rome is a long, bloody, and lonely one.”

The scene solidified, and a man in brilliant metal armor laughed as he tossed an infant Romulus up and down in his arms. “Ah, Iulius,” the man said, “I hope you never have to leave me! I promise, as long as I live, you will be protected by the great nation of Troy!”

Athens, Sparta, and two other ancients, an elderly man that represented Crete and a wealthy woman that represented Mycenae, paled as they realized the weight of that statement. This story began with the Trojan War.


	31. A Quick PSA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS NOT PART OF THE STORY. Just clarifying things for people

So, during my writing this scene, I realized that my perception of the Ancients is far more headcanon than the rest of the characters in this work, and that many of those among you may just have absolutely no idea who/what I’m talking about. So, this chapter is sort of a way to sort all that out, and while it doesn’t contain anything furthering the story, I hope it clears up a lot of facts about events to come. Without further ado, I give you my take on the Ancients of Hetalia:

 

  * Germania:Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Germania is the Ancient personification of the ethnically German peoples of central Europe, which were a disorganized bunch of proto-civilization tribes similar to those of the Native Americans. Germania’s human name is Folkert Beildschmidt, and he is the father of modern-day Prussia, Austria, Germany, Belgium, Switzerland, Hungary, and the Netherlands. Legend has it that Germania served as Rome’s bodyguard for a time, before turning on him and killing him.
  * Judea: Judea is the Ancient personification of the Jews, and though she was an accomplished warrior in her younger years, she has grown progressively weaker as time goes on. She was actually the second longest-living Ancient, behind China, and survived until the Holocaust reached its height in 1944, when she passed on her title to her only son, Israel. Her human name is Adinah Molowitz, and she has long, straight black hair, a slim build, bronze skin, and a rather prominent nose. Don’t mention it to her, though. As weakened as she is, she is still fully capable of killing you if you bring up the nose.
  * Celtica: This is the Ancient the rest of the fandom commonly refers to as “Britannia”, though I have chosen to refer to her as “Celtica”, for reasons I will reveal later. She is the personification of the Celts, the proto-European inhabitants of the British Isles before the arrival of the Romans. She is the mother of modern-day Scotland, Ireland, Northern Ireland, Wales, and England, and may have at one point had an affair with her fellow Ancient Skandia. She is a very hard woman, and never takes abuse from anyone unless she can give it back tenfold soon after. Her human name is Fiona Kirkland, she has silvery blonde plaited hair, arms herself with a powerful longbow, and is more than capable of totally wrecking your shit. She is also a terrible cook.
  * Skandia: This man is the personification of the medieval Scandanavian Vikingers (No, no “Vikings”. “Viking” is the verb, “Vikinger” is the noun. For instance, a vikinger goes viking). He isn’t really younger than the other Ancients, more like he minded his own business until around the Middle Ages, after Rome’s fall, and began to take the coasts of Europe by storm, his raids even reaching as far inland as Kiev and as far south as Northern Africa. He is one of if not the most accomplished sailors in history, and the father to modern-day Iceland, Norway, Finland, Sweden, and Denmark. His human name is Erak Ingenson, and he is absolutely massive, as people go, standing at about 6’6’’ with muscles that could grind meat. He has long blonde hair, complete with a braided beard, and usually carries twin Dane Axes into battle. Never say the word “Viking” as a noun around him, as he could crush your skull with his bare hands. Great friends with Byzantium, and might have had an affair with Celtica in his younger days.
  * Byzantium: Byzantium is Rome’s rightful heir, and is what many consider to be his prodigal son. He is highly religious, though far more secularized than his younger brother, Vatican City. He is highly intelligent, a capable warrior and tactician, and has a great admiration for history and his Greek heritage. He was prone to disagreements with his family, most notably Vatican City, as where he represents Catholicism, Byzantium represents Orthodoxy. His human name is Basilius Constantinus Patricanus, though nowadays he usually anglicizes it to Basil C Patricanus. He has long burgundy hair that falls around his shoulders, along with the telltale Hellenic curl sticking up from the back of his head, and usually only carries a shield into battle, though he has some skill with the sword and the spear. He held on to life for a long time, until his capital, the legendary Constantinople, was finally seized by the Ottoman Empire in 1453.
  * Athens: Athens is one of the four Ancients that make up Ancient Greece, alongside Sparta, Crete, and Mycenae. He is immensely powerful, and will constantly remind you of that fact, as he is quite arrogant. However, it isn’t _all_ boasting, as he has proven himself a capable warrior and an unmatched tactician, even holding out against his twin brother Sparta for nine years in the Peloponnesian War. He is the inventor of the trireme and has an impressive navy that went unrivaled in the Ancient World for centuries, until Carthage came along. Athens is one of the few warriors Rome respects, albeit begrudgingly, and continually gets into arguments over whose civilization was better. He has a good mind for medicine, philosophy, and politics, three things his twin never quite grasped, and though he never really took a human name, he prefers Perikles, to honor one of his greatest leaders. He is shorter and leaner than his brother, and usually only carries a short sword and shield into battle.
  * Sparta: Sparta is also one of the four Greek Ancients, and is Athens’s twin brother. Where Athens is cold and calculating, Sparta is hotheaded and straightforward. This is not to say that Sparta is stupid, far from it, but he prefers to attack his enemy head-on rather than wait and watch as Athens would. As a result of this, Sparta is one of if not the greatest warrior in history, is unmatched with the spear, and often boasts about how he stood against Persia at Thermopylae with only 300 soldiers, saving the Greek World. He is tall and foreboding, muscular and strong. He carries a war spear with him at all times, along with a heavy iron shield that many others can’t even lift. As for a human name, he has always been partial to Alexios.
  * Crete: Crete is the elderly personification of the Minoan-era Hellenic people that occupied his island before Mainland Greece. He is commonly considered the forefather of Sparta and Athens, and has had a romance with Mycenae in the past. He mostly keeps to himself and has jealously guarded secrets that he would likely take to the grave. However, this doesn’t mean he is unfriendly, as even though he can seem a bit callous at times, he is usually a generally likable person. Or, at the very least, not unlikable. He walks with a cane, but he is still surprisingly capable with a war axe and prefers to be called Minos when it comes to human affairs.
  * Mycenae: This is the Ancient that the fandom commonly accepts as the generic “Ancient Greece”, but I’ve chosen to separate that title into four, as Ancient Greece was far too complicated to gender only one personification. She represents the Mycenean Greeks, which were one of the oldest Hellenic societies on Mainland Greece, and is considered to be the mother of Athens and Sparta, as well as the other miscellaneous Greek city-states. She is an incredibly wealthy woman who enjoys the finer things in life, and usually lets others do the whole fighting business for her. She had a fling with Crete back in the day, but those flames have long since faded. She is an incredibly flirtatious person, and will reportedly bed anything that has a pulse, and can be seen with a chalice of good Greek wine constantly in her hand. She has curly brown hair that she pulls into a messy ponytail, and likes to be called Helena.
  * Khemet: This is Ancient Egypt. She is one of the last remaining “Original Ancients”, meaning those that are contested to be the oldest civilizations in human history. The other contenders are Crete, Sumeria, and Harappa, though Harappa and Sumeria have long since faded away. She oversaw every great thing the Egyptians accomplished, including but not limited to the Great Pyramids, the Sphinx, and conquering the Nile. She held Judea in her palace as a slave for a period of time, though Judea later escaped. She lives off the old glory of her civilization, but was left at the mercy of Athens and Rome in her later years. She has straight, short black hair, bronze skin, and usually dresses in elegant silk gowns, and uses the human name Aiya.
  * Troy: Troy is Rome’s long-lost father, and was killed in the Trojan War by Athens, Sparta, and Crete. His main defense is his brilliant armor, which was long considered unbreakable, and has some considerable skill with a spear. He is a generally likable person, and was caught in the crossfire when his prince, Paris, kidnapped Helen of Sparta and started the nine years long Trojan War that eventually killed him. He is unable to manifest as a spirit in the afterlife, but sometimes Rome insists that he can feel his father’s presence.
  * Vatican City: Vatican City is the personification of the Catholic Church, and while he is Rome’s last son, he can hardly be considered an Ancient. He is still alive today, albeit greatly weakened, and is the father of modern Italy and Romano. At the height of his power, he commanded all of Europe to do his bidding and often went by the name Papal States, or just Papacy. He refers only to the Pope and God Himself, and it takes a great amount of convincing to get him to agree to anything if it isn’t coming from one of those two people. Is generally well-meaning, but will admit that he has done bad things in the past. He was born lame, and uses a short staff to help him walk. He is surprisingly well versed in battle, considering his message of peace, and his human name is Clement Vargas. He usually appears as an elderly man, dressed in a priest’s vestments.
  * Carthage: Rome’s bitterest enemy, Carthage used to be an extremely powerful city-state in Northern Africa. He waged three massive wars against Rome and was totally destroyed after the Third Punic War, having his entire civilization and capital burned to the ground beneath salted earth. He is loosely related to Mycenae and the rest of the Greeks, though it is a tenuous connection at best. He wears a faded yellow cloak and has dark skin, dark red hair, and usually carries a short sword into battle. His human name is Atlan.
  * Gaul: Gaul is the proto-European Ancient that used to inhabit what is now France, and was one of the most successful of the Europeans in his fight against Rome. He has long, shaggy blonde hair, carries a hatchet, and is generally a sadist. After some research into Gallic practices, I've come to the conclusion that Gaul must've been totally off his rocker insane, as he counted burning several people alive as his favorite pastime. His human name is Vocorix, and he is France’s father.
  * Iberia: Iberia is the Ancient who inhabited the Iberian Peninsula before Rome, and is the mother of Spain and Portugal. She has plain brown hair that falls just below her shoulders. She is usually very quiet and shy, and prefers hunting and crafting to fighting, though she is far from incapable. Both she and Gaul are unable to appear as spirits, like Troy, because the memories of their cultures simply aren’t strong enough. She is usually only armed with a small hunting knife, and her human name is Bella.



Etruria: Etruria is a little-known Ancient that inhabited what is now Italy when Rome arrived. At first, Etruria resisted Rome’s rise to power, but something he saw in Rome changed his mind, and he seemingly allowed the young empire to conquer him. Rome seemed to gain much more power after facing Etruria, and legend has it that Etruria gifted Rome with some sort of mystic power. Etruria, like Troy, Gaul, and Iberia, is unable to reappear as a spirit. His human name is Lars.


	32. The Fall of Troy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Troy Story

The nations stood and watched as Troy bounced tiny Iulius up and down. It was interesting seeing the nation that they, for so long, had debated whether or not was real in the first place. Troy looked young, bordering on middle-aged. Maybe mid-thirties, in human years. He had tanned bronze skin and jet black hair cut short into a military cut, but one stubborn curl poked out the back of his neck, denoting that he had Hellenic ancestry. Troy himself was an impressive figure but more fascinating by far was his armor. It was white, brilliantly white, as if made from shined marble, and it covered every part of his body, which was impressive for Bronze Age armor. At his back, a white cape fluttered gently in the wind, and many could decipher where Romulus had inherited his fashion sense from.

Finally, Troy set little Romulus down, then gestured over the city’s walls, pointing to the horizon. “Do you see that line, Iulius, where the sea meets the sky?” he asked the infant, not expecting an answer, “Someday, I know, you will go there. Everything that sea touches will be your kingdom. It will be your empire, your ocean, yours and yours alone. I feel it in my bones, Iulius. You will be a  _ great _ empire one day.”

The nations stared in response to Troy’s words. They were… strangely accurate, in that knowing way fathers had. “Your father was  _ Troy? _ ” Feliciano asked his grandfather, looking at the Trojan with something like awe.

“Y-yes,” Romulus responded, a little startled by his grandson’s query. He’d been a little lost in thought, what with his immortal life being on the line, “He was. I don’t remember much of growing up in Troy, but I do remember that  _ Pater _ was kind.”

As if to accentuate that point, Troy laughed that stereotypical, Commercial-Dad laugh that made everyone think of the perfect family.

“What else do you remember?” Feliciano asked innocently, and Romulus’s eyes darkened. 

“I remember fire,” Romulus said darkly, and the scene shimmered to a scene of Troy, but the city was burning. There were ships in the harbor, hundreds of them, maybe a thousand, and in the city square, the infamous Trojan Horse towered over the city, watching silently as the Trojans screamed and cried out for their gods to save them. 

In the flames, Sparta appeared in full battle armor, shouting “LEAVE NONE ALIVE! KILL THEM ALL, LET THE GODS SORT THEM OUT!” The Greeks let loose guttural war cries, then carried on with the slaughter. 

Meanwhile, Troy marched through the streets of his broken city, presumably on the warpath. Now, he held an enormous spear, and his normally smiling, handsome face was covered up by a grotesque, scowling war mask. A Greek warrior ran at him, and Troy simply flicked his spear up, letting the Greek run himself through, the pitilessly flicked the spearhead down so that the body would slide off, all without breaking stride. Finally, he seemed to come to the house he was looking for, and he broke down the door, shouting “AENEAS!”

A man in Trojan battle armor came stumbling out of a nearby doorway, then snapped into a hasty attention stance. “Yessir!” he cried.

Troy removed his war mask, saying “Where is my son?”

“ _ Pater! Pater! _ ” answered his question, and a toddler version of Romulus ran into the room, crying and leaping into his father’s arms. 

“Ah, Iulius!” Troy half-sighed, half-cried. In his heart, he knew this would be the last time he laid eyes on his beloved son. He picked Iulius up deftly, then held him tight to his chest, kissing his forehead and rubbing his back, calming the boy down.

“Sir?” Aeneas asked tentatively. The poor Trojan was still standing at attention.

“At ease, Aeneas,” Troy said, with a sort of tired but loving exasperation that said that this sort of ultra-strict rule following was commonplace for Aeneas, “I need you to do something for me.”

“Whatever you need, sir!” Aeneas said eagerly, “I’d do anything for Troy!”

“I need you to leave,” Troy told him.

“I-I’m sorry, what?” Aeneas stammered. That hadn’t been the answer he was expecting.

“Take your family, get on a ship, and leave,” Troy ordered him again. Then, taking a deep breath, added, “And take Iulius with you.”

“Wha? But  _ Pater, _ I wanna stay with you!” Iulius cried, throwing his arms desperately around his father’s neck.

Troy’s heart shattered to pieces. He hating having to do this, but a father must protect his son, even if it meant sending him away. “Troy is lost. The Greeks are slaughtering us, and we don’t have much time, you need to leave.” he told Aeneas. Then he knelt and but his hands on Iulius’s shoulders, looking at the shaking, crying boy very seriously. “Iulius,” he started, smiling through the urge to frown while tears rolled down his face, “My darling Iulius. You are the light of my life, and I’d never be able to live with myself if you died before I did. I need you to go with Aeneas right now, and to survive. I need you to be strong and survive, Iulius, no matter what. When adversity strikes, take it head on and make it yours, be strong, and you will survive. And though you won’t see me, I will be with you every step of the way. I know this, Iulius, because I know that you are strong, far stronger than anyone else in the world. I know that one day, you will build an empire, the likes of which, the world has  _ never seen _ . You will rewrite history, Iulius, and to do that, you must  _ be strong _ .” By now, Troy was breaking down, and he kissed Iulius’s forehead once more, “Be strong, Iulius, and you will be a  _ great _ empire one day.” After echoing his words from all those years ago, he nodded to Aeneas, and Aeneas scooped the boy into his arms.

“No! Stop! Put me down!  _ Pater! Pater,  _ don’t make me go!” Iulius pleaded as Aeneas grimly carried him away, silent tears rolling down the Trojan’s face, “ _ PATEEEEEEEER!! _ ”

Troy wiped his eyes, then quickly put his war mask back on as Athens crashed through the window. “Finally found you, scum,” Perikles sneered at the Trojan personification.

Troy stood and drew his spear, leveling it at Athens, and then Sparta and Crete entered the room as well, slowly stalking forward with their weapons drawn. “This war ends tonight, Troy,” Crete said solemnly, his old voice straining with the effort of speaking.

“And we will  _ win _ ,” Sparta followed up, and Troy looked between the three of them. 

  
“So it seems,” he said simply. Then Troy bellowed a war cry, running at his attackers, and his shout was quickly cut short as Sparta thrusted into his stomach with his spear. Troy gritted his teeth and swung his spear in a wide arc, but Athens caught it with his shield and cleaved the shaft in two with his sword. This left Troy defenseless and Crete delivered the killing blow, swinging his war axe in a lethal arc as it struck home with a sickening  **_SCHNK!_ ** The three Greeks continued stabbing and hacking and butchering Troy’s body, coating the room with Trojan blood, even as the personification’s head rolled harmlessly along the floor. It hit a wall, the war mask fell off to reveal Troy’s peaceful, smiling face, his last moments ones of remembrance that his son was safe.


	33. An Update from the Author

Attention to all my beloved readers!

 

As school looms ever present in the distance, I found myself in need of a change of pace when comes to my stories. in the past, I've written about whatever topic held my interest at that time, but that has lead to some... unforeseen consequences. I'm pretty sure my treatment of  _The Good Old Days_  can be classified under Criminal Neglect... but no longer! I give to you... a SCHEDULE! 

That's right, a schedule!  _I_  have a schedule! From here on out,  _Redemption_  will continue to update on Mondays while  _The Good Old Days_ will make its triumphant return on August 23rd, and update on every subsequent Friday.

As for  _A Different Type of Visitor_ , that little doozy was a little half-baked, so I'm putting it on hiatus for now while I gather ideas. Looking forward to a few more months of sappy, overly romantic, hopefully halfway decent storytelling! Stay awesome! 

 

Yours Sincerely,

Tinhat


	34. The Second Hetalia Crusade (Update PS)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are under attack

I know it's odd for me to post three non-story chapters in quick succession like this, but I was worried after something I found out today. 

Ladies and gentlemen, the Hetalia fandom is under seige once more. It happened in 2013, and it's happening again now. Recently, numerous Hetalians fell under social media attack, most notably on Tumblr, by death threats and hate speech from people who clearly don't understand us. We are not the same fandom we were in 2013, and I pray that we never become that way again. The Hetalia fandom nowadays is a tightknit group of good people who love the show for what it is, and a damn fine fandom in my humble opinion. I realize that because I touch on many sensitive subjects in this work, we may find the haters in our very comment section. So, I'm writing this to make sure you're all okay, and that you haven't let these vultures hurt you, and to say: Stay Strong. We've survived this before, we can survive it again. There is good news, as Hetalians seem to outnumber the haters two-to-one, and we seem to be winning this particular keyboard crusade, but I just wanted to check in. Please comment down below to say you're alright, and if any of you need to talk, we're all right here. 

In the words of Prime Minister Sir Winston Churchill: "Keep Calm, and Carry On"

 

Sincerely,

Tinhat


	35. First Contact

The mist started shimmering to a different scene, and Romulus provided commentary to the gathered nations. “I’m sure you’re all familiar with the Aeneid?” he asked them, looking out at an image of a small fleet flying Trojan banners, caught in a storm somewhere far out at sea, “Most of that happened. I grew up fast, I had to. I needed to be useful to Aeneas, and to the rest of the crew.” The image enhanced to show a vaguely teenaged Romulus fighting against the wind to grab at the rigging and bring in the sail, while Aeneas desperately tried to steer the ship in a safer direction.

“Neptune is angry with us!” one Trojan wailed, “We’re all going to die!”

“Don’t talk like that!” Young Romulus shouted back at him, “We’ll get out of this! JUST HOLD ON!”

The wind kicked up and the rigging was torn from Romulus’s hands, making the young personification stumble across the deck. The rain pounded down on the wood planks harder, and the storm encompassed all as the scene changed. “The storm was devastating,” Romulus said grimly, “We had to limp to the nearest port, which just so happened to be-”

“Carthage,” A dark-skinned man in a yellow cape said from the back of the group, “ _ My  _ port.”

The scene appeared as Romulus went pale at Carthage’s voice. The small Trojan fleet limped into the harbor of a great city that had a massive central port in the form of a circle. The Trojans threw out lines, and the dockhands caught them, tying them off. As the exhausted sailors came ashore for the first time in months, a small party of greeters crowded around them. As Aeneas tried to answer questions, the crowd suddenly parted as two prominent figures walked toward them. One was a tall, dark-skinned woman with long, jet black hair that fell down her back, and an elegant gold tiara placed delicately on her head. This was unmistakably the Carthaginian queen Dido. The second was a young teenager, maybe seventeen in human years, quite close in age to Romulus, with dark skin and a yellow cape. A younger version of Carthage.

“Welcome to the great city of Carthage,” Dido said regally, gesturing behind her to the endless buildings, “I am Queen Dido. Who are you, and what brings you here?”

Aeneas stumbled forward and dropped to an exhausted bow, saying, “Your Majesty, it is an honor. My name is Aeneas, and I lead a group of survivors from the land of Troy. Our home has been destroyed, and our ships damaged in a storm. All we ask is food and shelter, until we can be underway once again.”

Dido considered the exhausted man before her, and the weary travelers still on the ships behind him. “Very well, Aeneas,” Dido said at last, “You and your survivors may rest at my palace until you can be underway. My guards will escort you.” 

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Aeneas breathed gratefully, and the Carthaginian guards started to gather up the survivors and lead them inland. Slightly apart from the group, Carthage and Rome sized each other up.

“So you must be Troy?” Carthage asked the younger personification.

“No, actually,” Iulius responded, “That was my father. I’m Iulius.” He struck out a hand, and Carthage shook it.

“Atlan,” he responded, “Sorry to hear about that.”

“Th-that’s alright,” Iulius said quickly. There was an awkward pause, and Carthage nodded several times and turned to follow the Queen, leaving Iulius to return to his group of Trojans. 

The scene fast-forwarded to a large banquet, in which the Trojans were guests of the queen. Aeneas was seated at Dido’s right hand, and though the dull roar of conversation covered what he was saying, the queen seemed to find it very entertaining. The main focus of the vision, however, was Iulius, sitting farther down along the table, drinking heartily from a flagon of wine and chatting with anyone who would stand to listen to him. Iulius prattled on and on about their journey from Troy, how brave Aeneas was, and how amazing Carthage was, especially its wine. It was quite clear to the gathered nations that the young teen was shitfaced drunk. Romulus sighed at the sight of his younger self, slightly embarrassed, but the worst was yet to come. Atlan, who at this point had been sitting near the queen, had moved down the table to listen to Iulius with a polite interest, nursing his own flagon. As the night went on, both personifications were incredibly drunk, laughing and hiccuping together as they exchanged stories and tales of bravery.

As the night winded down, Dido lead Aeneas into the inner workings of the palace while Atlan and Iulius snuck off to the gardens together. Both of their faces were red from the effects of the drink, and as they reached the gardens, Iulius pulled Atlan against a wall and… and… uh… oh dear… 

“Oh my God,” Noah sighed as he averted his eyes.

“Holy shit!” Todd exclaimed, covering Leilani’s eyes.

“What?  _ Whaaat? _ I wanna see!” Leilani protested.

“Sheesh, have some decency, Gramps!” Romano muttered, looking away.

“Oh, my!” Georgia said, turning bright red and fanning herself as she hurriedly turned away.

“I can’t fucking believe this…” Arthur sighed.

“You’re telling me,” Athens agreed dryly.

“In the  _ gardens _ \- the indignity!” Clement huffed, looking away hurriedly.

“ _ Honhonhon, mon Dieu! _ Romulus, you sly dog!” Francis exclaimed, watching the two intently.

“DON’T WATCH!” Romulus protested, wrestling the Frenchman away from the scene.

“I… did  _ not _ need to know this…” Basil sighed, covering his eyes and looking pointedly at the ground.

Feliciano only buried his face in Germany’s chest, too embarrassed to look.

“What the hell, Atlan!” Fiona exclaimed, staring at the Carthaginian.

“I was young! We were drunk!” Atlan protested, his face bright red, “I didn’t know any better!” At that moment, Past Atlan moaned with particular intensity, and the Carthaginian somehow turned a deeper shade of red.

Massachusetts, New York, New Jersey, and New Hampshire were falling over themselves with laughter, and Erak was also roaring with laughter, albeit separately.

“This is, without question, the most disturbing thing I have ever experienced in my entire life,” Toby said as his head tilted in fascination, watching as Iulius and Atlan switched positions, “But yet, I can’t seem to look away… It’s giving me some ideas...” Jett jumped, his whole body going on edge.

“Sh-shut up, Kiwi!” the Australian blurted, blushing and looking away.

“Please stop looking!!” Romulus begged from where he had a still laughing Francis pinned to the ground.

Thankfully, the book seemed to answer Romulus’s pleas, and the scene shimmered back to the conference room. “I think that is enough for tonight,  _ ja? _ ” Ludwig asked, and there was a resounding chorus of “YES!”, only countered by a “No, please!” from Francis and Helena.

“You okay,  _ Pater? _ ” Byzantium asked as he crouched over Romulus, who was laying on his back on the floor, utterly defeated.

“I don’t wanna talk about it…” the Roman sighed forlornly.

“Come on,” the younger empire sighed, slinging Romulus’s arm over his shoulders and helping him out to his bedroom, the rest of the nations following them out, the Ancients all staying in spare bedrooms that had gone yet unused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll let your imagination do what it will...


	36. Burning Bridges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iulius and Atlan grow apart.

As the nations reentered the conference room, they looked varying degrees of disturbed by the previous day’s events. Atlan seemed to have collapsed in on himself, his greatest shame ousted to the rest of his peers, and pointedly stood in the back of the room. Romulus looked just as tired and frayed as his Carthaginian ex, but as he was the center of attention, there was little he could do to alleviate that. Toby seemed very satisfied with himself, albeit a little tired, and Jett was very distracted, barely responding to a greeting from Alfred. In fact, there was a repeat of that pattern in several of the nations, namely Feliciano and Ludwig, Tino and Berwald, Antonio and Lovino, Francis and Arthur, and Matthew and Gilbert. The interactions were very suspicious to Leilani and Kiku, and as they put two and two together, the pair had a hard time covering up nosebleeds.

Alexander, seeing that Ludwig was temporarily down for the count, decided to take matters into his own hands- er, hand, and stood at the front of the table, preparing to open to the book. “Y’all ready for the next chapter?” he asked tentatively, fearful of the answer.

“Yes!” Helena squeaked, raising her hand as if she were at school.

“You don’t need to raise your hand, Helena…” Fiona sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration.

“Not really, but fuck it, let’s do it anyway,” New York said, responding to the original question.

“Alan!” Alfred scolded, “How many times have I told you to watch your language?”

Alan rolled his eyes, standing up and saying in his best over the top Shakespearean accent, “ _Dearest Uncle, though I feel unprepared for this particular endeavor, I rouse myself to the challenge with a cry of ‘_ fuck it!’ _, and encourage you to proceed nonetheless!_ ”

Jersey choked on a glass of orange juice she’d procured for herself, then started laughing as Alfred flushed with humiliation. Noah merely leaned back in his seat and chuckled to himself. As unlikable as his cousin was, you had to admire the New Yorker’s wit.

Alexander sighed, muttering “Lord, why me?” under his breath, then turning the page before anything more could happen.

The scene shimmered to life, and it showed a scene of Iulius fast asleep, his body covered by a thin sheet to counteract the African heat, and thankfully screening the nations from his nude body. “Iulius, wake up,” a voice said, nudging the young personification with their foot, to which Iulius responded by turning over onto his side and moaning tiredly. “Iulius,” the voice tried again, shaking the teen this time, and Iulius curled up.

“In a minute, Atlan,” Iulius muttered, yawning, “Give a guy a chance to recharge.”

“Iulius, I’m not Atlan, and I sure as hell don’t want to share a bed with you,” Aeneas sighed in exasperation.

Iulius’s eyes rammed open, and he yelped as he scrambled away from his captain. “Aeneas!” he shouted in alarm, rapidly covering himself with a nearby tunic, “What the hell! What’s going on, where’s Atlan!?”

“Back onshore,” Aeneas said calmly, pointing to the rapidly retreating horizon. The Trojans were back at sea once more.

“What the-? You pulled me out of _our bed!?_ WHY DID WE LEAVE!?!” Iulius shouted, staring at the coast from the rail of the ship, “I LIKED IT THERE!”

“It wasn’t our home, Iulius,” Aeneas said, his voice small, “We had to leave. We must find ‘ _Italia_ ’ no matter the cost.”

“But…” Iulius murmured, his voice pathetically small, “Atlan…”

The scene changed to Atlan’s bedroom, where the young Carthaginian was just waking up. “ _Yaawn!_ Good morning, Iulius,” Atlan murmured, rolling up into a sitting position. It was such a natural motion, as if he’d done it several times before and it was now customary. Then, many of the nations recalled the part of the _Aeneid_ that stated that the Trojans were in Carthage for a year, and Iulius and Atlan must have been together for a corresponding amount of time. Then, after noticing the absence of Trojan in his bed, Atlan called, “Iulius?” He stood up, dressed himself, then went outside, started to smell something burning, and heard someone scream. Atlan began running through the palace full tilt, then arrived at the balcony overlooking the garden, and was horrified by what he saw. The Royal Gardens, in which he and Iulius had shared so many passionate nights, was now lit aflame, dominated by a massive pile of treasure from both the Carthaginians and the Trojans. Worst of all, however, was the massive funeral pyre that contained the impaled body of none other than Dido, his queen, now lifeless and burning.

“No…” Atlan murmured, running once more through the palace, “NO!” He hit the gates and still did not stop, running through the city until he reached the shore, and sure enough, spotted the retreating line of Trojan ships on the horizon. “No, no, no! IULIUS!” Atlan shouted, falling to his knees as tears rolled down his face, “Why…?” Then, the young nation’s hands curled into fists as he struck the sand below him, “It doesn’t matter,” he growled, his voice full of raw, anguished venom, “I swear, Iulius, so long as you and I are in this life, I will hunt you down and _destroy you!!_ ”

The nations stood silent as the scene faded away. Romulus and Atlan looked at each other silently, neither daring to speak to the other. Then, a few scenes went by in rapid succession. Aeneas and his crew landed in Italy, the Trojans rejoicing as they found their new home. Aeneas married the princess of Latium, and Iulius began to become a young man in the Latin court. Soon, Iulius looked to be about twenty, and he had gained much prestige in the eyes of the Latins. As Iulius grew stronger, so did Atlan, and the nations also saw the Carthaginian empire expand throughout northern Africa and even into Iberia. However, the main focus was on Iulius, and the formerly Trojan personification was now a personification of Latium, as the fledgeling kingdom had yet to gender one of its own, and he seemed generally well liked within the Latin court. However, the scene settled out as Iulius knelt beside a wounded woman holding twin babies. “Silvia, please, it will be alright, let me talk to the king-” Iulius was saying, but Rhea Silvia cut him off.

“I am no fool, Iulius Patricanus,” she said, saying both his nomen and cognomen for emphasis, “As long as the current king is in power, neither my children nor I will be safe. He will find a way to kill us and cut off their right to the throne of Latium. So take them, far away from here, where they will be safe. Do not tell them who they are until they are ready. Do you understand?”

Iulius looked conflicted, probably remembering the pressed circumstances of his own childhood, but eventually steeled his nerves. “Okay,” he said finally, “I’ll do it.”

Silvia breathed a sigh of relief, “Here,” she said, handing the twins over, “Their names are Romulus and Remus.”

Iulius nodded as he grimly took the babes in his arms, then fled the city of Latium, venturing out into the Italian wilderness. The scene blurred, showing Iulius walk for days, carrying the babies, fighting off bandits, finding meager sources of food, trying his best to care for the two boys, until eventually, Iulius collapsed by the side of a river. His white tunic was frayed and torn, and parts of it were stained brown with dirt, others soaked red with blood. He was breathing hard and bleeding slightly from a cut above his brow, courtesy of a lucky bandit, and the children were crying for milk he’d run out of three days ago. As he lay on the riverbank, despairing over the boys’ chances of survival, he heard a canine whine. He turned, and sure enough, a she-wolf was looking at them, her head cocked in curiosity. Iulius stared at it for a long while, the wolf staring right back, until eventually, Iulius got on his knees and held the babes out to her.

“Please,” he begged, “They’re starving. I can’t give them any milk, but you can. I know you’re just an animal, and I’ve probably gone insane, but _please_ , if by some grace of the gods you can understand me, _save them._ ”

The she-wolf considered the kneeling Latin, and the two babes he held out to her. Then, perhaps from some motherly instinct, or just by coincidence, or even an act of the gods, she lay on her side, and presented her teats to the children. Iulius almost cried with joy as he let the boys go and suckle the milk they so desperately needed, and knelt beside the wolf. Tentatively, he scratched her behind her ears, and she closed her eyes in contentment. “Thank you, girl,” Iulius sighed gratefully, “I think I’ll call you… Lupa.”

Lupa blinked and twitched her ears, and Iulius decided to take that as affirmation that she approved the new name. Then, the scenes began to blur together again, Iulius carrying the children along the river, now with Lupa at his side, and the boys began to grow. First toddlers, then when they were adolescents Lupa passed away, then they grew into teens and soon bright young men, all under Iulius’s watchful eye. Romulus and Remus were soon the best and brightest of the small village they’d settled in, and Iulius seemed content. He trained them to fight, how to build, how to govern fairly and justly, and most importantly, how to live. The two brothers became an unstoppable team, until one day tragedy struck.


	37. We'll Call the City Rome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rome's story subverts all expectations.

Romulus and Remus were practice fighting with wooden swords near the banks of the Tiber River, and Iulius was off at the market gathering supplies. Romulus jabbed and Remus parried, twirled, and stepped forward to slash at his brother’s legs, but he slipped in the mud and almost fell into the Tiber. Romulus reacted, grabbing at his brother and pulling him up and over, but only succeeded in pulling himself down and landing between Remus and the ground. After getting wet, Remus pulled himself up, laughing, saying, “Well, better luck next time, Romulus. Romulus?” Remus stared at where his brother still lay in the river, and the rapidly growing thread of red that emanated from the back of his neck. “Romulus!” Remus cried, pulling his brother up, and his stomach lurched as he saw a wickedly jagged rock poking up from the riverbed. “No. No, no, no,” Remus pleaded, turning his brother over, but sure enough, there was a corresponding hole in Romulus’s neck. 

“No! Romulus!” came a shout, and Remus turned to see Iulius, basket of supplies discarded, running full tilt to the brothers.

“I-Iulius, I, I don’t,” Remus stuttered, but the look on his mentor’s face said it all. There was no accusation, just sorrow, and understanding. Iulius said nothing, simply kneeling by the two brothers and holding them in his arms, weeping. “It should have been me,” Remus said shakily, “Romulus must have seen the rock, he pulled me out of the way at the last second. Now… now he’ll never see the city we were going to build together… it should have been me…”

Iulius said nothing once more, only looking down at the lifeless, staring eyes of the boy he’d come to see as his son. Remus hugged his brother’s form tighter. “You should have lived,  _ frater mihi _ ,” he whispered, “And damn it! That is what history will remember!”

For the first time, Iulius looked up at Remus, and said, “W-what?”

“History will never know that Romulus died in a training accident,” Remus said with conviction, “History may have its eyes on us, but history is blind. I will take the name Romulus, and so will you. As far as history can tell, it was Remus that was killed, and Romulus survived.”

“R-Remus…” Iulius started unsure of what to say.

Remus shrugged him off, taking his brother’s body and placing it in the river so it would float away. “We’ll build on the Capitoline Hill, like he wanted,” Remus said, pointing at the rise in the distance, “And we’ll call the city Rome.”

Iulius opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, then bowed his head. “Alright…” he said eventually, “ _ Romulus Rex _ .”

The present nations stared as the scene shimmered away. “But…” Arthur said, “It was Romulus that survived, wasn’t it? Remus was… Remus should have been…”

“Remus was right,” Romulus said sadly, his eyes downcast, “History was none the wiser. Both he and I took the prenomen ‘Romulus’, and we called the city Rome. As far as everyone could tell, Remus died over an argument of what to name some stupid city. Meanwhile, I was about to be given more power than I could ever comprehend.”

The scene shimmered to life once more. Romulus was standing in an enemy court, bound by chains, a king looking over him. “Who is that?” Basil asked, his eyes narrowing as he started to get the feeling he knew that person.

“That is Lars Porsenna,” Romulus said, “The king and personification of Etruria. A nation I was at war with in my early days.”

“Who are you, Roman?” Lars asked disdainfully from his throne.

“Mucius Scaevola,” Past Romulus lied.

“Well, ‘Mucius Scaevola’,” Lars drawled condescendingly, “You will tell me of the Roman king’s battle plans. Or I will torture them out of you.”

“I’m not afraid of pain,” Romulus said, “And I am certainly not afraid of  _ you! _ ” Throwing off one of his guards, Romulus stuck his left hand into a central brazier that the Etruscan king kept in his throne room. The guards started to move on him, but Lars waved a hand to stop them, leaning forward with interest. Romulus held eye contact with the Etruscan as the pain flared throughout his body. He betrayed no emotion, not a single tear, not a single cry. He stood there, stock still, for hours, watching the king, until finally, the king motioned for the guards to remove his hand. The fire flared up, and as Romulus’s hand was drawn away, the nations jolted as they realized that the Roman’s hand was little more than a blackened stump. He’d burned away his whole hand in a power play.

“Do you…” Lars started, “Understand what you’ve just done…?”

“Fucked your wife? Because I’ve been doing that for weeks!” Romulus sneered through the pain, causing Basil to facepalm with the present nations.

“Charming,” Lars dismissed flatly, “No, Rome. Do you understand what flame that is?”

“You mean the flame I’m gonna use to brand your wife’s a-” Romulus started to taunt again, but Lars cut him off.

“Oh, for GODS’ SAKE, listen! I was once told a legend by the man who gave me that flame. A nation called Macedon. He told me that there are five flames in this world. The Flame of Asia, the Flame of Arabia, the Flame of Africa, the Flame of Europa, and the Flame of America. Whichever nations hold these flames become unstoppable, they excel to heights of power their predecessors and rivals could only dream of. They become Empires,” Etruria said.

Romulus stopped struggling against the guards restraining him. “I’m listening…” he said.

“I thought you might,” Lars said with a ghost of a smile, “You see, there are legends concerning these flames. They say that the Flame of Arabia is the First Flame, lit by an ancient empire the name of whom has long since been forgotten. The embers were scattered around and discarded, but if they are ever gathered together, it is said to be glorious, outshining even the Flame of Europa. They say that the Flame of America is far out of reach, lying in wait for a worthy bearer. They say the Flame of Asia is constantly in need of cultivating, because its keeper is constantly losing it. For some reason, they call it ‘The Mandate of Heaven’ in that country. The Flame of Africa was once wielded by a woman named Khemet, but has since found its way into the hands of your old friend Carthage. This here, however, is the Flame of Europa. Legends tell it was lit by an ancient race of Greeks on the island of Crete, and it was passed through the Line of Hellas until it reached Macedon, and then to me. The Flame of Europa is the mightiest flame, to be sure, but it only allows its bearer to wield it for a short time. By burning your hand into it, you have forever intertwined yourself with the full power of Europe.”

Romulus stared at his hand. Then, experimentally, he furrowed his brow and concentrated. Sure enough, the flame bowed and flared, swept up and formed a ring, before settling back to normal. “ _ Di Immortales… _ ” he whispered to himself, and the scene faded.

“So that’s how you became what you are,” Fiona sneered, “One dead human and unlimited power, and you go over the edge to full blown conqueror.”

Romulus glared at her, the fire returning to his eyes. “ _ Do not speak of Romulus and Remus as if you know what happened, _ ” he said dangerously, “ _ I remind you that I squashed your puny race like the barbarians they were! _ ”

Fiona drew her bow, saying, “How DARE you!”, but Arthur stepped between them.

“ENOUGH!” he shouted, looking between each Ancient, “You two are millennia old, and yet you’re acting like children! Mother, you agreed to see the rest of Rome’s story, so sit down, shut up, and stop instigating! Romulus, if this is bothering you so much, stop dignifying schoolyard taunts with a response!”

All the nations, states, and Ancients stared at the Brit with something like awe. Romulus, however, was chuckling softly. It started to grow into laughter, and he shoved Britain out of the way to look Celtica in the eye. “Ah, Fiona, how I missed you and your famous wit!” he sighed with mock fondness, “I did nothing but raise up the world as a whole, elevating the standard of human life to a place it wouldn’t regain for another thousand years! And yet, you call me arrogant. Amoral. A dangerous disgrace. Nothing but a violent bully trying to play god, well guess what! You’re  _ right _ .”

“C-Come again?” Britain asked fearfully as he felt the temperature rise.

“But it wasn’t the endless death, war, and destruction I oversaw, or even the unlimited power of the Flame of Europa within me that drove me to become a monster, oh no,” Romulus continued ranting, splaying out his hands like a gameshow host, “That was the handiwork of my old friend  _ Carthage. _ ” The scene shimmered to an image that made them all blanch. The once great city of Carthage, burning as screams filled the air, all too reminiscent of Troy. Clearly, this was the end of Rome and Carthage’s final battle. The Third Punic War.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the next chapter in the long, long, LONG story of Rome! This one has some subversion of the facts with a little fantasy thrown in, but what's a story without a few magical McGuffins?


	38. Salt the Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rome and Carthage face off for the last time.

The nations watched as Carthage burned around them. Romulus, dressed in full battle armor, with a shield modified to fit his prothstetic hand and armed with a long war spear, stalked through the streets, slaughtering all he came across with impunity. As Romulus strode through the broken streets of Carthage, flashes of memories broke through the mist. Romulus defending Rome from the armies of Hannibal, watching as the war elephants tore through his inexperienced troops like a knife through hot butter. Romulus and Scipio Africanus bringing the fight to Carthage, beating them into submission. Romulus catching a glimpse of Atlan in the chaos, but never truly speaking to him throughout the Second Punic War. Finally, Romulus horrified as he heard the news that a Third Punic War was on.

Overall, one memory, one quote rang through Romulus’s head. He was standing in the Senate, pleading to let them spare Carthage, but a Senator stopped him. “Romulus,” the Senator said, “I understand the history between you and the Carthaginians. I understand why you want to spare them. But it is far too late for mercy. The spear has been cast, now it is time to end the fight. It comes down to who will be dominant in Europa: us, or Carthage. The world must be sent a message, Romulus. Rome will fight to be on top, regardless of the enemy.”

Romulus crumpled at the Senator’s response, then the flash ended. Now, Romulus was standing in the gardens of the Carthaginian Royal Palace, the place where he and Atlan had shared so many nights. So many memories. Romulus looked… sad. Like he didn’t like what he saw, even though he was finally destroying his worst enemy and bitterest rival.

“Die, Roman!” a scream of rage came from his right side. Without looking away from the roof of the gardens, Romulus flicked his spear up and let the Carthaginian run himself through, a move he seemed to have inherited from Troy. 

“Why did it have to come to this?” Romulus sighed to himself as he stared at the spot on the wall where he and Atlan had shared their first night. They were so carefree back then, no wars, no politics. Just two boys in love. How did it ever come to this?

“ _You!_ ” a familiar voice filled with venom spat, and Romulus turned to see Atlan standing there in full battle armor.

“Me,” Romulus agreed, taking off his helmet, “How have you been, Atlan? We haven’t talked in a long time.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Atlan shouted, “I hate you! Don’t act like we’re still friends!”

“But…” Romulus stuttered, “Why…?”

“ _WHY!?_ Oh, that’s _rich_ ,” Atlan laughed scornfully, “YOU LEFT ME!”

“Wha- _that’s_ what this is about?” Romulus realized, his eyes going wide, “That was centuries ago!”

“It’s still fresh to me, every night when I wake up, and I can still smell the sickening stench of Queen Dido’s corpse burning!” Atlan countered.

“Dido _what!?_ ” Romulus asked, “And I didn’t have a choice! Aeneas made me-”

“Oh, Aeneas!” Atlan said with mock understanding, “Well, if _Aeneas_ did it, that makes it a-okay!”

Romulus waited. “It doesn’t, does it?” he asked forlornly.

“NO, YOU ASSHOLE!” Carthage screamed, his voice breaking with emotion, “I _LOVED_ YOU! AND YOU LEFT! YOU SAILED OFF TO SOME SHITHOLE OF THE WORLD JUST TO HURT _ME!_ ”

“That’s not what happened, Atlan, _please_ ,” Romulus pleaded, “I _needed_ to go to Italia! It was my destiny!”

“Your destiny!?” Atlan screeched, “Your destiny was to abandon your first love and go on a conquering rampage across Europe!? That was your destiny!?”

“I see your point-” Romulus tried again, but Carthage cut him off.

“NO, this is the part where you _LISTEN!_ ” he shouted, and Romulus started as he realized that Atlan was crying. Atlan curled in on himself, staring down at the ground as centuries of buried emotions came bubbling up to the surface. “Are there many beautiful women in Italia?” he asked quietly, “Or strapping young men? Is it true that wine grows from the trees there? Is it as beautiful and fertile as they say?”

“I-- yes,” Romulus answered truthfully, fearing he knew where this was going.

“So that’s it,” Atlan muttered as he wiped the tears away, “You went gallivanting off to some  miraculous wonderland with the promise of wine and women. Because of course you did. And what was I to you? Just an old fucktoy that you played with for a year, then moved on.”

“No, no, Atlan, that’s not what it was at all,” Romulus said softly, “I swear. My love for you _was_ real.” He started walking toward the Carthaginian, discarding his shield.

“D-don’t come any closer, you _monster!_ ” Atlan protested shakily, backing up a few steps, but ultimately, he found himself dropping his sword as Romulus held him in his arms.

“My love for you then was real,” Romulus assured him, “Just as real as it is now.” Romulus pulled Atlan into a passionate kiss, and Atlan weakly protested, but it felt so natural. So loving. It was hard to pull away. Then Atlan’s eyes widened in shock as there same an intense pain in his stomach, along with the slow spread of sickening warmth. Romulus pulled his lips away as tears rolled down his face, staring down at how he’d just stabbed his beloved with a war spear. “That’s why this hurts so much,” the Roman croaked.

“Wh- _gghh_ -w-why?” Atlan coughed up blood, tears filling his eyes as he stumbled down into the dirt.

“The world must be sent a message,” Romulus quoted sadly, “Rome will fight to be on top. Regardless of the enemy. I-I can’t let anyone or anything stand in my way. Not even you. Not even love. I’m sorry, Atlan.”

Atlan grimaced as the pain flooded through him. “ _Murderer,_ ” he hissed, and Romulus staggered back in shock. “ _Conqueror. Fool. Monster! Murderer! Fool! MONSTER!”_ Carthage repeated again and again, until finally death took him. Carthage’s body went slack, and his once beautiful honey cream eyes stared into nothingness. He didn't wake up.

Romulus dropped to his knees, shaking and crying. “What have I _done?_ ” he asked brokenly, “I did my duty! I followed orders! Then why… why do I still feel so… so… _horrible?”_ He sobbed in the burning gardens, hugging himself, and suddenly he stood up and screamed. A horrible, soul-wrenching scream that echoed in the very bones, and the Flame of Europa exploded forth from Romulus.

The nations were blinded by a bright flash, then stared at a now stock-still Romulus as he stood in a levelled Carthage. Bewildered Roman soldiers stared at their commander, wondering what had just happened, but the nations could figure it out. Romulus had unleashed the Flame, and he’d brought Carthage down. Not a brick, not a man, woman, or child remained. Just a crater in the sand. “Salt the earth,” Romulus said emotionlessly to the centurions staring at him, “Carthage will never rise against Rome again.”

The centurion stared, then saluted hastily and rallied his men.

Romulus stared out at the sea. His father had once told him that he’d be a great empire one day, that he’d rule everything that the sea touched. For the longest time, though, Romulus had been unsure of how to do it. Now he realized. All he had to do was give up love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good ol' breakups. Never fail. Who's ready for a "Conquering Europe" montage next chapter?


	39. Wildfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romulus takes Europe by storm, like a wildfire spreading in dry grass
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> !WARNING! Some reference to rape. If that's not your thing, you've been warned.

The scene was quickly replaced by an image of a dark, dirty room, lit by meager torchlight. Soon, a door burst open and Athens quickly shut it behind him, running to a central table. “Come on, come on, come on…!” he muttered to himself, scouring the scattered scrolls, apparently looking for something. “Here!” Perikles said finally, lifting a scroll from the pile. He quickly read it over, and his face paled. “No…” he murmured, “There’s no way to cut it off. No way to beat him. No, no, nothing’s impossible, Perikles, you know that. I just need to-”

“Outhink me?” Romulus asked threateningly as he appeared in the doorway behind the Athenian.

Athens whirled around and drew his sword, but Romulus flicked it away with his spear almost contemptuously. “Come on, man,” he sighed condescendingly, “You really thought that would work? Aren’t you supposed to be the greatest mind in Graecia?”

Athens growled lowly, “I  _ am _ the greatest mind in Hellas,” he said menacingly, “The greatest naval power in the Aegean! You’d do well to remember tha-!”

Romulus grabbed him by the throat, cutting him off, “I’m getting  _ real _ tired of that bullshit, Peri,”he said, his eyes glowing red, “But before I burn you and your beloved democracy to the ground, I want you to answer me one thing… do you remember me?”

“R-remember you-?” Perikles choked, “I’ve never even met you!”

“Think back,” Romulus implored him, “Trojan War, maybe?”

Athens’s eyes widened. “The brat…” he whispered.

“Came back to bite you, didn’t I?” Romulus grinned wickedly. Athens screamed in alarm, and Romulus burned him with the Flame of Europa.

The scene shifted to Mycenae, her patented wine glass in her hand as she stood on a balcony, regarding how in shambles her once great city-state was. “ _ Chaire _ , Romulus,” she said, not looking behind her as the Roman appeared in the doorway.

“ _ Salve _ ,  _ Graeca _ ,” he said simply, “I assume Athens sent word ahead to the other city-states of Graecia?”

“He did,” Helena sighed sadly, “For all the good it did us. It’s sad really, for as much as we all hated him… he did try to do right by Hellas, in the end. I suspect the last pocket of resistance you’ll face is my son Sparta. He is brave, and powerful, but he is also remarkably foolish.”

“A respectable warrior,” Romulus defended the Spartan, “And I don’t say that about any old Greek I meet. He and Athens would have been a formidable enemy, had they been prudent enough to see past their differences and tried to stop me together. Athens was the greatest strategic mind in the world, he’ll make a fine addition to my empire.”

“Empire? So that’s what you’re calling it?” Helena asked, “Rather unbecoming of a republic, isn’t it?”

“Republic for now,” Romulus said, “My father told me I’d be an empire, and an empire I shall be. Soon enough.”

“So I suppose you’re here to kill me, then?” Helena sighed, “Not much Mycenae can offer the new ‘Roman Empire’ except good wine and fine women…”

“Who’s to say that’s not what I want?” Romulus whispered carnally, reaching around her back, “I think you’d make an excellent consort for a new emperor, don’t you?”

Helena shrieked, and the scene went dark. The scene reilluminated as a Spartan war spear clattered to the field, broken in half. A massive bronze shield bearing the Spartan Lambda soon followed it, sinking deep into the ground under its own weight. Finally, Alexios himself crashed to the ground, a spear buried in his abdomen, Romulus standing over him. “How does the old saying go?” the Roman asked, “‘With your shield or on it’? Rather hard to carry you home if your soldiers can’t lift the shield, isn’t it?”

“That was the point,” Alexios coughed through blood, “If the shield of Sparta couldn’t be lifted, then Sparta would never truly die.”

“Huh,” Romulus pondered, “You’re more poetic than I gave you credit for, Alexios.”

Sparta grinned devilishly, “Just because Perikles was better at it doesn’t mean I wasn’t pretty damn good.”

“Pretty damn good is right,” Romulus agreed, crouching beside the dying Spartan, “Didn’t you fend off Persia herself with only three hundred men?”

“That’s right!” Sparta grinned.

“Hmm,” Romulus hummed, then he drove his knife through Sparta’s throat, killing him. “Too bad that famous Spartan grit didn’t save you this time,” Rome sighed as he effortlessly picked up Sparta’s shield and sent it spinning into the din of battle.

The scene lighted once more on Romulus confronting another Ancient as his empire grew. “ _ Salve, Aegyptum _ ,” he said to Khemet, obviously in the Egyptian personification’s throne room.

“So…” Khemet leaned forward, interest sparkling in her old eyes, “You have it, don’t you? The flame that my old friend Crete lit for you so long ago?”

“I do,” Romulus said, making the braziers in the room flare for emphasis.

“I held a flame once,” Khemet sighed, “But that was a long, long time ago…”

“Why, Aiya, you don’t look a day over four hundred,” Romulus said coyly.

“You flatter me,” Khemet laughed, her eyes twinkling, “Perhaps flattery isn’t all you’re good for…?”

Romulus eagerly swept the Egyptian seductress into his arms and led her to another room, and the scene, thankfully, went dark before reilluminating once more. The nations were standing in the harsh desert sands, but it didn’t feel unwelcoming. It felt… strangely peaceful, as if they belonged there…

“The Holy Land…” Clement breathed as he recognized it from the Crusades. This was obviously the Levant as it was several thousand years ago, long before the time of the Turks, let alone Yosef and his Israelis. But, of course, there was a group who lived in the Holy Land before any other.

“ _ Salve, Judea _ ,” Past Romulus called across the sand as a beautiful young woman with black hair and bronze skin toned by the sun stood defiant against him. The Ancient Judea, in her prime, defending her Israelites in Jerusalem with all her power and skill.

“ _ Shalom _ , Romulus,” Adinah said, “I think I understand what you’re here for. It has happened to me many times. You are not the first Flame-bearer I have dealt with, and I have a feeling you will not be the last.”

“Then You will give me what I want?” Romulus asked hopefully.

“No,” Judea said defiantly, drawing twin curved swords that were adorned with red tassels at the hilts.

“I thought not,” Romulus smiled ruefully, “But you can’t blame a guy for trying.” 

The two Ancients ran at each other, and Judea presented a fighting style that none of the nations had ever seen anything like before. She twirled with grace, like a dancer, but struck hard and fast, like a viper. As a serpent in the sand, she dodged and wove her way against Romulus’s rigid defense, and the present nations were astonished.

“How is that possible…?” Arthur asked, “I’ve never known anyone who could challenge Pater, let alone anyone who could fight like  _ that! _ ”

“Adinah did have quite the impressive moves, back in the day,” Romulus scratched his cheek, smiling, “And not just on the battlefield…”

“Shut up, you damned conqueror!” Israel shouted at him, drawing a machine gun from nowhere, “Stop talking about my mother as if you loved her! You  _ raped her _ , just as you did Mycenae and Khemet!”

Romulus’s expression darkened at the young Israeli’s words, “First, Aiyah consented. Second, I was a  _ different man _ then, Yosef. You have to believe me.”

“It’s alright, my son,” Adinah said gracefully, gently lowering her son’s gun to the floor, “I have long since forgiven Romulus for such transgressions. Much like I have forgiven Harappa, Persia, Khemet, Britain, America, and Germany. As should you, as well. You may have inherited my people, but you did not inherit my scars, nor my grudges.” As Yosef grumbled and blushed as his mother kissed him on the forehead, taking his gun away, she turned to the other nations, “As for my fighting style, I’m afraid I might be the only one who still remembers the fighting ways of the Ancient Israelites. Not many historians recall that I was a warrior culture, in my earlier days. I’d be delighted to give a demonstration at a later date.”

“Yes please!” Alfred said excitedly, “What you did with those swords, and that spin move? Utter brilliance! Absolutely amazing! I’m more of a firearm guy myself, but for what you had in the day, that was some next-level stuff! Do you think you could teach me?”

Judea seemed taken aback, but after overcoming her initial shock, she smiled warmly, “It would be my absolute pleasure, Alfred!”

Arthur leaned over to Alexander, “Since when has Alfred been so invested in lost Jewish fighting techniques?” he asked the Southerner.

“Alfred is a total nerd when it comes to fighting, always wanting to learn new things,” Alexander supplied, “he made Prussia teach him swordplay, Ireland taught him street boxing, and he learned fencing from France. Hell, he even had Kiku, Yao, and Yong Soo teach him about eight different martial arts.”

Arthur pondered this, wondering why Alfred hadn’t simply come to him. After all, he was quite the accomplished warrior himself. Nonetheless, the scenes of Romulus’s conquests, as well as his territorial expansion, carried on.

The Gallic Wars went by in a flash, with Romulus fighting against Gaul and his barbarian warriors with some difficulty, but still remarkable ease. Then he easily conquered the mild-mannered Iberia, and added her to his collection of consorts along with Khemet, Judea, and Mycenae. Gaul, Athens, Sparta, and Crete made up his personal war council, for when Romulus felt particularly challenged by coming threats. However, he rarely did. Soon, Rome was alone at the top of the world, sitting on a throne of power and control. Built on the backs of soldiers and slaves, his palace watched over Europe intently, like a wolf.

Even though he had all the women he could ever want, all the wise men around him he could ever need, all the servants he could ever own, Romulus was yet to have a true friend, or a true member of his family. He was the undisputed master of the world, yet he had no one to call home. He was, in all senses of the term, a lonely god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worked long and hard on this one. (An hour after homework on Monday night) I really wanted to flesh out some of the other Ancients, and I hope I did a good job. We'll get to the other, more prominent Proto-Europeans in later chapters, but for a teaser, let's say that the lonely god won't be so lonely soon.


	40. Fatherhood

The scene shimmered away as the world stood in shock. For so long, they had seen Rome as this perfect figure, the original model that all modern nations aspired to be. Now, they learned the truth: Rome was just as broken and distant as they were. There was nothing godly about him except his hubris. He was merely a man. “You say you’ve changed from… that,” England said carefully, “How?”

Romulus looked at him with tears in his eyes. “The greatest thing to ever happen to me,” he said tearfully, smiling through his lacrimation, looking startlingly similar to Troy at the end of his own life.

The scene shimmered to life once more. Romulus sighed as he entered his bed chamber, laying his spear and shield against the wall as he sat down heavily on the bed. “ _ Di Immortales,  _ what a day…” he muttered to himself, “I had a meeting with the emperor at  _ prima luce _ and I’ve been up ever since… I need to get more rest.”

To his surprise, his rhetorical conversation was answered by a high-pitched cooing. Jumping up, Romulus whirled around to see a previously unnoticed baby sitting in his bed, in swaddling clothes. “What in the hell…?” Romulus breathed. The baby cooed in response, waving his little arms at Romulus from his bundle of cloth.  _ Nope, _ Romulus decided, and he turned and ran out of the room, shouting “JUDEA!!”

“Ah!  _ Domine _ , apologies, I didn’t see you come home,” Adinah asked as Romulus almost ran into her, “What do you need?”

“Just come with me!” Romulus said urgently, grabbing her by the arm and rushing her through the halls.

As they reached his bedroom, Judea sighed, saying, “ _ Domine, _ please, not tonight, I am so tired…”

“What?” Romulus asked quizzically, then, understanding, quickly said, “No, no, not that!  _ That! _ ” He pointed at the baby for emphasis. Israel shot Rome a look in the present, which the old Roman pointedly ignored.

Adinah noticed the baby, and covered her mouth with her hand in shock. “Why, I never thought…” she murmured, “Though the empire is so large, I suppose it makes sense…”

“What? What makes sense?” Romulus pleaded with her, “Who’s baby is that!?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Adinah asked him, “That’s  _ your _ baby, Romulus.  _ You _ gave birth to him.”

The Roman and the Israelite stared at each other for a long while. “Adinah,” Romulus started slowly, “I can’t give birth. That’s not how guys work.”

Adinah smacked her forehead with her hand, “Not like  _ that _ , Romulus! I mean he’s your son! Nations are born differently from humans, they just sort of… pop into existence.”

“Pop…?” Romulus asked.

“Yes, pop,” Adinah confirmed, “So? Are you going to take care of him?”

“ _ Me!?! _ ” Romulus let out a strangled cry, “But…! I don’t know anything about babies, you take care of him!”

Adinah raised an eyebrow, “Didn’t you raise Romulus and Remus?”

“That was different, I had Lupa and I was under duress!” Romulus protested, “Besides, you  _ are _ my slave. I could just  _ order _ you to take care of him.”

“You could,” Adinah conceded, “But you won’t.”

“And why is that?” Romulus asked, straightening up to his full height.

“Because,” the Israelite responded simply, “You’re far too intrigued by the prospect of being related to someone who isn’t in shackles or has a sword at their back. Or both.”

Romulus spluttered indignantly, channeling his inner Arthur, and Adinah rolled her eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake-- here!” she scooped up the baby and thrust it into Romulus’s arms, and the Roman yelped in surprise.

The baby cooed happily, and began playing with Romulus’s hook, chewing on it with his nonexistent teeth. “He’s… he’s… he’s so fragile,” Romulus breathed, “So small…” 

“Most babies are,” Adinah said, smiling as her plan came to fruition.

As Romulus held the fledgeling nation in his arms, something cold inside him began to warm up again. His loneliness washed away, replaced by a fierce, fiery feeling he hadn’t felt since he’d burned down Carthage. Could it be… love?

“So?” Adinah asked, “What are you going to call him?”

“Basilius,” Romulus said after a pause, smiling a smile that only a parent would understand, “Basilius Constantinus Patricanus.”

The scene shimmered away, and Byzantium stared at his pater with something like pride, and Romulus seemed to glow under his son’s silent praise.

“Having your own son was all well and good, Romulus,” Fiona said after letting a moment pass by, “But you didn’t have to  _ steal _ ours!”

Romulus paled, and the scene changed once more. To a familiar forest with a familiar straw hut, and a familiar sweet-smelling stew, with the laughter of familiar children. And the scene of a familiar decision that forever changed the course of history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What sorcery is this!? I'm posting a chapter that DOESN'T go up at some ungodly hour of the night!?!


	41. Britannia

The nations watched as Fiona disappeared inside the house, carrying a pot of the stew, while little Alba, Cymru, Eire, and Albion played in the fields. Played was a strong word. It was bullying, no doubt. Cymru lay underneath a nearby tree, watching uneasily as Eire and Alba

tossed a stuffed rabbit around, just out of Albion’s reach. Present Arthur gasped as he recognized it, “M-Minty!?” he whispered, staring at his beloved childhood toy.

“Alba! Eire! Give Minty back!” Albion cried, flailing his tiny arms as he tried to reclaim his stolen toy.

“Come and get it, then!” Alba taunted, waving it out to his younger brother before tossing it up and over his head to Eire, who caught it effortlessly.

“You two are being _mean!_ ” Albion screeched, close to tears.

“Oh, what, is the baby gonna cry now?” Eire asked with mock concern, “Go on an’ _cry_ , Albion, _cry_ like a little _baby!_ ”

Albion shrieked with rage and ran off into the woods, tears just beginning to flow as Alba and Eire laughed behind him. “Dammit, Allistor, you went too far!” Cymru scolded his younger brother as he stood up to go chase Albion, “I’ll go find him, _you two_ go inside and tell Mum what’s happened!”

“Aw, what?” Eire muttered indignantly.

“Not our fault Baby Big Brows can’t take a joke!” Alba responded.

“And he’s exactly that!” Cymru shouted at them, “A baby! An infant! He doesn’t deserve this kind of taunting and bullying yet! Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to be the responsible one, _again_ , and go find him before _you two_ get us all killed by Mum!”

“Mum wouldn’t kill us!” Eire shot back, “... would she?”

“I would,” Fiona said nonchalantly to her sons, who shifted uneasily in the ranks of the present nations.

Cymru threw up his hands in exasperation and stalked off into the woods, calling Albion’s name, while Alba and Eire went inside, hanging their heads. The nations soon saw little Albion, running through the woods, crying hot tears of anger, when he ran headlong into something metal. “Ow…!” Albion wailed, rubbing his head as he fell over from the force of the impact.

From above him, Albion heard a chuckling laugh, soft and soothing, and he looked up to see an olive-skinned man in strange metal clothing and a bright red cape. The present nations easily recognized him as a younger Romulus Iulius Patricanus. “ _Salve,_ little one,” Romulus smiled invitingly, “Are you lost?”

Albion looked up at the strange man with something like awe. He’d never seen anyone like that before, so regal, so friendly, so… kind. “N-not lost,” he responded eventually, “Ran away.”

“Ran away?” Romulus whistled lowly with mock appreciation for such a grievous crime, raising his eyebrows as if a convict had just confessed to him a gruesome murder, “Now why’d you go and do something silly like that?”

“My brothers are mean!” Albion insisted stubbornly, “I don’ wanna live with them anymore!”

“Well, what about your mom?” Romulus argued, “Surely she’d be worried?”

Albion vigorously shook his head, saying, “She’s mean too!”

Romulus sighed as he sat down next to the little nation, “Yeah, parents are like that sometimes, but they really do care. Do you know what your mom’s name is? Maybe we can find her together.”

Albion pouted for a little while, but after some cajoling from Romulus, he eventually said “Fiona.”

Romulus’s eyes widened, “So you’re _her_ son… that means… I see,” he murmured, half to himself, “Tell you what. Why don’t you come home with me? You won’t have to go home with your mean family, and I can take care of you instead of letting you wander around the forest. Would you like that?”

Albion’s eyes widened in awe, and he nodded vigorously, and Romulus hefted the young nation onto his shoulders, so that Albion was far more above the ground than he was used to. Albion clapped happily, seeing things from an all new angle, and Romulus laughed as he carried the boy back to his camp. “That reminds me…” Albion said to himself as they went along, “What’s your name, mister?”

“Me?” Romulus said, “Oh, I’m Romulus! What’s _your_ name?”

“Arthur!” Albion said proudly, as if it was a difficult thing he’d finally memorized.

“A noble name,” Romulus nodded sagely, “I suppose the civilized form would be something like ‘Arthurus’...”

“What do you mean ‘ciwilizzied’?” Albion asked, tripping over the unfamiliar word.

“Oh, you know, like Rome,” Romulus said, “You have heard of Rome, haven’t you?”

Albion shook his head in confusion. Romulus whistled, “This is gonna take some explaining,” he muttered, “Arthurē, did your mom ever call you by a different name? One that feels really familiar to you?”

Little Arthur nodded, “Albion,” he supplied.

“Good, this will be a little easier then,” Romulus sighed in relief, “See, we’re a little different from normal people, Arthurē. That other name, Albion, you said? It’s the name of your country. Just like the name of my country is Rome, or your mother’s name is Celtica. We’re special, Arthurē, us nations live for a long, long time. Much longer than regular men. And on top of that, we can’t die, not really anyway. If we get too hurt or too sick, we just wake up again a few hours later good as new. My nation, Rome, is a fantastic place. You can live your whole nation life there in peace and tranquility, or, when you’re older, you can join me in certain wars. I’ve been expanding as much as I can, gathering up lost little kids like yourself, so that I can raise them like a family. You see, Arthurē, grown-ups are all a little too set in their ways. When they get too old, they refuse to adapt or change. I’m certain even I'll fall into that trap one day, and maybe you will, too. But children? Children have done no wrong, children can still change their minds with no fear of consequence. That’s why I try to find so many lost children, Arthurē, so that even if I can’t get them just right, I might be able to put them on a better path, give them good morals to fall back on when adversity strikes. If you like, I can help you, too.”

Albion nodded vigorously, Romulus’s silver words tantalizing his little mind with fantastic scenes of wonder. “Yes, please!” he said happily. Such a place was such a stark departure from the less-than-stellar home life he’d known thus far, it seemed too good to be true.

“Alright then, from now on, I’m your _pater_ , and you’re my _filius_ ,” Romulus smiled, bringing the little nation into his war camp as the legionnaires guarding the entrance let him pass after a puzzled look at the newly acquired baby.

“Okay, _Pater!_ ” Arthur said happily, looking wildly around him at the new surroundings.

“We’re gonna need to change that country name, though, too barbaric for a son of Rome,” Romulus mused as he put the boy down near his tent, “How about… Britannia!” Arthur considered the name, then smiled widely and nodded. Laughing together, the newly christened father and son went into the tent to sleep.

A little ways away on a ledge overlooking the camp, clutching a bow with white knuckles, Cymru watched in horror. “This is bad,” he said to himself. Steeling his nerves, he drew an arrow from his quiver, took aim at the nearest Roman, and fired.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops. Sorry this is a day late everyone, totally flaked yesterday. It shouldn't happen again. Feel free to freak out about the stupid decision young Wales has just made in the comments.


	42. Mordred's Lullaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rome and Cymru have a friendly discussion on the topic of Arthur's future

Cymru’s arrow struck home, killing a legionnaire, and the Roman war camp went into lockdown. Legionnaires scrambled around, grabbing their spears and shields, and bellowing warnings and warcries. In his tent, Romulus left Britannia in the care of one of his most trusted centurions, then ran outside, pulling on his helmet as he did so, and clipping his specially made shield to his hooked hand. He scanned the ridgeline with practiced expertise. Another arrow whistled out of the bushes, and Romulus caught it on his shield, the stone arrowhead screaming as it struck the central metal bulb. If Romulus hadn’t put up his shield, the arrow would have struck him in the neck. Whoever the archer was, he was a deadly shot. “One archer, probably few arrows. Didn’t pierce the shield or armor, so he’s using a hunting bow, not a war bow,” Romulus muttered, analyzing the situation perfectly, “Probably another one of Fiona’s brats on some misguided rescue mission. He must have seen me take Albion. If I get close, he’ll probably be wily but largely defenseless.”

Romulus bolted for the ridge, a legion falling in behind him, bellowing a battlecry. The barbarian brat sprang from the bushes to meet them, leaping from the ridge as he drew his bow and fired, killing one of Romulus’s men. The barbarian rolled as he hit the ground, then drew his bow from a kneeling position, firing again and again. Romulus brought up his shield, but others in his cohort weren’t so lucky, crying out as arrows struck between the chinks in their armor. Cymru cursed as Romulus got closer, drawing a long hunting knife, the blade laughably short compared to a Roman pilum. The Roman and the Celt ran at each other, grappling in the tallgrass, but Cymru had no hope of besting Rome in hand-to-hand combat. He was wily, but not invincible. After a brief struggle, Rome had discarded Cymru’s knife, and broken his bow over his knee, leaving the young Celt defenseless as he was beaten and taken prisoner. 

Kneeling in chains, Cymru looked his captor in the eye as Romulus stood in front of him, quiet and challenging, spirit unbroken. “You did a commendable job, barbarian,” Romulus said begrudgingly, “Killing three of my men like you did. But your efforts were ultimately in vain.”

“You took my _brother_ ,” Cymru hissed at the conqueror, talking around the blood welling in his mouth.

“Your _brother_ came with me of his own will,” Romulus shot back, “Seems you weren’t very good to him. Don’t blame _me_ for _your_ poor life choices.”

Cymru looked away guiltily, then he hung his head, “What are you going to do to me?” he asked.

“The Colosseum has long been baying for Celtic blood,” Romulus said, “I think you’ll make for an entertaining gladiator, don’t you?” 

Cymru blanched, his skin flushing to an unnatural pale. His mother had told him horrific stories of the Roman Colosseum, and what they did to captured Celts there. He remembered having nightmares of lions. “What about my brother?” he asked shakily.

“He’s young, malleable,” Romulus said, all pretenses of affection gone, “Easily swayed. Soon enough, with enough… _conditioning_ , he’ll forget everything about you and your family. He’ll be a Roman, through and through.”

Cymru flinched at the thought, but he steeled his nerves once more, “But _why did you take him?_ ” he hissed at the Roman tyrant.

Romulus smirked, kneeling down to give his interrogation more intimacy and creepiness, “ _To hurt your mother in the worst way possible,_ ” he whispered in the young Celt’s ear, “She and her barbarian cohorts are trying to wrest from me a power that is rightfully mine. Even if she weren’t actively planning against me, she would resist my rule of Britannia with all her strength. Lesson #1 of Empire Building, barbarian scum: deal with all the dissidents.”

“So that’s what you want?” Cymru asked breathlessly as he breathed through his pain. There was still a knife in his thigh. “To deal with her?”

“Oh, no, I’d never dream of it,” Romulus chuckled, “I’d rather not sully my hands in this. I have a plan, you see. I’ve been studying your family for months, I knew it was only a matter of time before Albion broke and ran away, right into my waiting arms. Once he’s old enough, once he’s loyal enough, once he thinks of himself as nothing but _my son_ , then I will deal with Celtica.” he leaned in closer to the Celt’s ear whispering so softly that Cymru almost couldn’t hear him, merely feeling his hot breath on his neck. “ _And I’ll have Albion do it for me,_ ” Rome whispered evilly, and the Celt’s eyes widened in shock. He could see it now, Albion, older, in Roman battle armor, killing his mother and his brothers with a spear, with no idea why what he was doing was oh so horribly _wrong._

“You’re a _monster_ ,” Cymru whispered.

Rome’s eyes darkened, and his expression shut down. “I’m not a monster, Cymru,” he said darkly, “I’m a _hero_.”

With the present nations, America flinched.

Romulus stood up jerkily, jabbing a thumb at a nearby centurion, saying, “This one’s going to the Colosseum. Tell the slavemaster to give him to the lions early.” 

As Cymru started to shake and cry in fear, Romulus stalked out of the tent, putting the happy father mask back on. He walked back into his own tent, to see little Albion, no… little Britannia quivering behind a tray of fruit. “Is the bad man gone?” he asked fearfully.

“Yes, _mi fili_ ,” Romulus smiled, sitting on the bed with his new son, “Just a misguided barbarian. We dealt with him easily, because that’s how powerful we Romans are! Now, all this excitement has made me tired. What say we go to bed and set out for Rome in the morning?”

Britannia smiled widely, but his grin faltered, “I… I don’t think I can fall asleep yet…” he said timidly, “I don’t like nightmares.”

Romulus’s heart twisted with pity. Just because he was using the boy for his own gains didn’t mean the child needed to suffer. “How about I sing you a lullaby, then? Would that help?” he asked the little province. 

Britannia brightened up, “Sure!”

Romulus laughed, then tucked Britannia under a sheepskin blanket, and as the little nation nodded off, Romulus chanted a soft lullaby:

 

_Hush child, the darkness will rise from the deep and carry you down into sleep,_

_Child, the darkness will rise from the deep and carry you down into sleep…_

 

_Guileless son, I'll shape your belief, and you'll always know that your mother's a thief!_

_And you won't understand the cause of your grief, but you'll always follow the voices beneath…_

 

_Loyalty, loyalty, loyalty, loyalty, loyalty - Loyalty only to me!_

 

_Guileless son, your spirit will hate her, the flower who married my brother the traitor!_

_And you will expose her puppeteer behavior, for you are the proof of how she betrayed his loyalty!_

 

_Loyalty, loyalty, loyalty, loyalty, loyalty - Loyalty only to me!_

 

_Hush, child, the darkness will rise from the deep and carry you down into sleep,_

_Child, the darkness will rise from the deep and carry you down into sleep…_

 

_Loyalty, loyalty, loyalty, loyalty, loyalty - Loyalty only to me!_

 

_Guileless son, each day you grow older, each moment I'm watching my vengeance unfold!_

_For the child of my body, the flesh of my soul, will die in returning the birthright they stole!_

 

_Loyalty, loyalty, loyalty, loyalty, loyalty - Loyalty only to me!_

 

_Hush, child, the darkness will rise from the deep and carry you down into sleep,_

_Child, the darkness will rise from the deep and carry you down into sleep…_

 

Romulus chuckled as Britannia settled down into a deep sleep. “Sleep tight, little king,” he cooed softly, brushing the boy’s blonde hair out of his eyes, “Soon, you and I are going to do great things together…” Romulus softly chuckled to himself, and the image went dark as the moon disappeared behind a cloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song is a slightly adapted version of "Mordred's Lullaby" by Heather Dale, I'm been listening to it on repeat while I wrote this scene.


	43. Homecoming

Romulus fearfully looked at Arthur with the present nations as the scenes paused. The Englishman said nothing, he only held his hands behind his back in a very formal, stiff way, and had his jaw clenched shut, refusing to speak or even meet the Roman’s gaze. Romulus sighed and looked at the ground, then jumped as Byzantium patted him on the shoulder. Something in his chest warmed, and he smiled at his son, grateful for his comfort. At least one of his sons still loved him. Romulus was then startled to realize that Francis, Antonio, Clement, and Feliciano were also looking at him with something like compassion, and Romulus smiled softly at the reminder that his makeshift family had survived, regardless of his transgressions. Rome cleared his throat, and tried to find his voice, “I realize what this looks like,” he started, and he felt the gaze of dozens of Ancients and present nations alike snap to him, “But regardless of my intentions, I  _ did  _ do my best to be a father.” 

At his insistence, the scene shimmered back to life, and the nations looked out to see the great city of Rome in its absolute prime, with pristine marble buildings stretching across the seven rolling hills as far the eye could see, the mighty Tiber river cutting through the Italian countryside, and the sun shining brightly on the Colosseum and the Pantheon. Romulus looked a thousand pounds lighter, and he breathed in the warm summer air, and sighed with nostalgia. “Roma…” he sighed, and the name itself seemed to echo through the streets, and the city grew brighter in recognition. It was as if the city itself was alive, and knew that its master had come home.

In the streets, the minstrels sang, the potters and blacksmiths tended their crafts in their respective stalls, the builders set about creating Rome’s great temples and villas, the merchants haggled and upsold their goods, and the politicians spouted complete and utter bullshit from the rostra. Then, horns blared as the Roman Fanfare played, and the Via Triumphalis came alive as Romulus returned from the conquest of Britannia. Little Arthurus’s eyes were as big as dinner plates as he looked around wildly at the beauty of Rome, and Romulus smiled as he arrived home. He loved battle and war and conquest, but there was nothing quite like coming home.

“Come, Arthurē,” Romulus said to the little province, “It’s time I introduce you to your brothers.” Romulus scooped the boy into his arms, then walked him to his villa on the Palatine Hill. 

As Romulus arrived home, Judea came to greet him. “Domine!” she said, “Welcome home, sir!”

“Good to be home, Judea,” Romulus sighed gratefully, “Meet little Britannia! Arthurē, this is my head slave, Adinah, the personification of the Jews. Adinah, this is Arthurus, the new province of Britannia!”

“Oh, my, another one?” Judea asked, fawning over the young boy, “Someone’s been busy, Domine.”

“I have,” Romulus agreed, setting Arthurus down, “The Celtic barbarians are giving me more trouble than I thought. But at least my foothold has a personification now!” Romulus proudly patted Arthurus on the head.

“Pater! Welcome home!” a young boy in a soft purple tunic cried, coming out into the atrium to meet him.

“Basilius!” Romulus said gleefully, hugging his firstborn son tightly, “Meet your new baby brother, Arthurus. Arthurē, meet Basilius, your older brother!”

“H-Hello…” Arthurus said meekly, speaking for the first time since he’d arrived in Rome.

“ _ Salve! _ ” Basilius said brightly. Where Romulus was a king, Basilius was definitely a prince. He was young, there was no doubt, but old enough that he had begun to take on responsibility, and he carried himself with such a confident, friendly air, it was hard not to like him. “Do you want to come with me to meet the others? It’s okay if you don’t,” Basilius went on, “I know it can be really daunting in the first few days.”

“N-no! No, that’s alright,” Arthurus said quickly, “I want to meet them!”

Basilius looked up at his father, “May I, pater?”

“Oh, go ahead,” Romulus said affectionately, “Just don’t do anything stupid!”

Basilius squawked indignantly in a very un-princelike fashion, and Arthurus had to cover up a giggle as Romulus raised an eyebrow at his son pointedly. Suitably embarrassed, Basilius grabbed Arthurus’s hand, turned heel and stalked off, huffing about being “a hundred and fifty years old now,” and that he “wasn’t a child anymore!”

Arthurus giggled again. Basilius lead the younger boy into the central garden, where a few other kids were playing. “ _ Salve, _ everyone, if I could have your attention!” Basilius called, and the kids looked back at him, “Pater’s come home from Britannia, and he’s brought us a new brother to play with! Everyone, this is Arthurus, the newest province of the Roman Empire!”

The kids stared at Arthurus, and the little Briton gulped nervously. The kids laughed and crowded around him, poking and begging him to play with them, and Britannia yelped and pulled his little green hood over his head tightly, as if hoping it might hide him from them.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough, proper introductions this time!” Basilius ordered, and the children immediately fell into a line.

“ _Salve,_ _Britannia,_ ” a young boy with short, mousy brown hair said, “I’m Hispania, and this is my twin brother, Lusitania,” he gestured to a slightly shorter boy with green eyes and longer brown hair, “It’s nice to meet you! We should play Trireme Battle sometime!”

“O-okay!” Britannia nodded, still a little overwhelmed.

“ _ Salve _ , I’m Aegyptus,” a dark-skinned boy with a head covering said politely, “I know the first day can be weird, but I hope we can be friends!”

“I’m Italia,” a young boy with silvery blonde hair said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m Gallia,” a boy with long blonde hair said stiffly, “Nice to meet you.”

Britannia smiled politely, secretly relieved that introduction were over, then leaned over to Basilius, “What’s wrong with Gallia?” he asked.

“Gallia had it harder than most with his first parent,” Basilius said uncomfortably, “He’ll come around eventually, don’t worry.”

Lusitania leaned over to whisper in Britannia’s ear conspiratorially, “I heard he’s actually a romantic fop on the inside, but he doesn’t want anyone to know. It’ll come out right away if you get his hair dirty.”

“ _ MY HAIR IS DIRTY!?! _ ” Gallia gasped in horror, furiously combing it and letting the tough illusion fall almost immediately, “ _ Sacre bleu,  _ I need a mirror! Clemens, quickly, get me a mirror!”

“Only if you admit there’s only one God!” Italia said accusingly.

“Oh, give it a  _ rest _ , Clemens,” Hispania rolled his eyes, “Everyone knows there’s a whole pantheon up there. Uncle Athens said so! You’ve been hanging around with Judea too much.”

“Have not!” Clemens denied.

“Have too!” Hispania argued.

“Have not!” Clemens shot back.

“Oy vey, here we go again,” Aegyptus sighed, using a common expression they’d all picked up from their nursemaid, Judea.

“Antonius! Stop it!” Basilius pleaded weakly, but to no avail as Italia and Hispania got into a vehement and pointless argument.

All the while, Lusitania, who’s human name was Ioannes, kept snickering with Arthurus and making snide comments about his twin. Arthurus giggled, turning to Lusitania, “I like my new big brothers way more than my old ones! You guys are really nice and funny!”

Ioannes smiled, saying “We try. Pater gets mad if we don’t, he’s really trying to keep us all happy.”

“Happy…” Arthurus said softly, like the thought had never occurred to him.

With the present nations, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, and Celtica flinched visibly. The scene shifted, and the nations gasped as they saw Romulus sitting in his box, grinning to himself as he watched lions prowl around the field, surrounding one doomed fighter. “Don’t disappoint me, Cambria,” Romulus said to himself, and young Wales shakily drew back his bow, aiming at the lion.

“I hate lions,” he whispered to himself, and he fired, hitting the beast square in the eyes. The crowd roared approval. Wales fought lion after lion, and soon he was covered from head to toe in blood, so much so that the crowd began calling him  _ Rufus Draco _ ,  _ Red Dragon.  _ As the day ended, the young Celt was lead to his sleeping quarters, and had nightmares of lions.

In the Imperial Box, Romulus hummed thoughtfully to himself as he studied the Colosseum battleground. “Yes, that’ll do…” he muttered, “That’ll do just fine…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick explanation of how Rome's provinces work:
> 
> Lusitania is Young Portugal, his human name is a Latin form of the common Portuguese name Joao.  
> Hispania is Young Spain, that's pretty self explanatory.  
> Aegyptus is Young Egypt, he was the product of Romulus's night with Aiya.  
> Byzantium is the heir apparent, so he covers Anatolia, Graecia, and Illyrium in terms of personification, hence why he is so much older than the other boys.  
> Gallia is Young France, and is standoffish because of his rocky childhood with Gaul, who used to sacrifice living people by way of Burning Man. So yeah, that'll leave you a little fucked up.  
> Judea is absolutely the nursemaid.  
> Italia is Young Clement, and though he currently personifies mainland Italy, he will soon graduate to Personification of the Catholic Church, and his sons will take up the mantle of Italy.  
> Uncle Athens is their tutor.  
> Uncle Sparta trains them to fight.  
> Cambria is the Latin name for Wales.  
> Lusitania and Britannia get along so well as foreshadowing for the Anglo-Portuguese Alliance.  
> Hispania offers to play Trireme Battle (Battleship) because Britain and Spain were two of Europe's most predominant naval powers, also Britain defeated the Spanish Armada.
> 
> See y'all next week!


	44. Personalization

The scene shifted. Time had obviously passed, as all of Rome’s provinces were now teenagers, Byzantium being a young adult, and all of them were standing in the Colosseum, with Romulus standing in front of them. “Alright, all of you,” Rome started, “It’s now time for you all to choose your personal weapons.”

“Personal weapons?” Britannia asked quizzically, “Haven’t we already trained with legionnaire weapons?”

“That’s true,” Byzantium chimed in, standing slightly apart from the group, “And legionnaire weapons are great for fighting in giant legion formations. But as personifications, we’ll be doing a lot more fighting as individuals, so for that, we’ll need something that feels natural for us.”

“Being trained in various forms of weaponry is all well and good, it gives you versatility,” Romulus went on, “But nothing is more effective than one weapon you are entirely familiar and comfortable with.”

With the present nations, China nodded sagely, “‘I fear not the man who has practiced ten thousand kicks once, but I fear the man that has practiced one kick ten thousand times.’ Wise strategy, Romulus.” Romulus smiled uncertainly at him.

America furrowed his brow, muttering “Wasn’t that a Bruce Lee quote…?” under his breath.

Back in the past, Britannia nodded, “Of course, I understand now.”

“So! We’re going to bring out a sample of weaponry,” Romulus said, signaling a nearby slave to bring it out, “Don’t just pick the one that seems cool, pick one that seems natural. You’re personifications, so the intentions of your people, the Roman people, will flow through you by themselves. If you have trouble, close your eyes and just… breathe. Focus on them, your people, and feel your connection to them. You’ll feel warm and bubbly inside, like resting by a warm fire in a cold night. All of you, give it a try.”

The provinces closed their eyes, breathing slowly and each of them smiled after a moment, and Romulus nodded his head, “Good, do you all feel it? Now, when you feel you’re ready, open your eyes, and claim your weapon.”

Aegyptus was the first to open his eyes. His gaze snapped to the weapons rack, and he picked up an Egyptian-made khopesh, and he swung it experimentally. “This one,” he decided, and Romulus nodded.

“I thought so,” the Roman said, “Who’s next?”

Lusitania opened his eyes and picked up a shorter sword with a strange, upturned crossguard. He swung it around a little, then grinned. “I like it,” he said, “Though it looks like I could get spotted if this is too shiny. Maybe I could paint the blade…”

Hispania was next to open his eyes, and he took up a massive halberd, and after stepping away from the group, swung it around in a mighty arc, and it slashed through the air with a deadly  **_thrumm._ ** “ _ This one _ ,” Hispania said emphatically.

Italia picked up a simple staff, and smiled to himself. He could keep enemies at bay, and it was unassuming as a weapon. He could even make it fancier with some sort of gold adornment, to make it even more unassuming and able to be concealed as a simple walking stick. 

Gallia was next, and he picked a light sword that he could carry and use easily. It wasn’t very good for attacks, but with a more defensive style, he could do wonders with it. He nodded his head affirmatively.

Finally, Britannia opened his eyes. He strode forward, and after a beat, picked a wide sword with a much longer crossguard than the usual Roman legionnaire’s weapon. It was light and manageable, but could still pack quite the punch. He swung it experimentally, and smiled softly to himself, “I’ve made my choice,” he said evenly.

“Good, now you’ll want to name them,” Byzantium said, “Something that feels natural. For instance, these are my weapons.” Byzantium drew a massive hourglass shield and a long, heavy  _ spatha _ , a Roman cavalry sword. “This is  _ Athrafstos  _ and  _ Nomimotita _ . That’s Greek for  _ Unbreakable  _ and  _ Righteousness _ .”

“Yes, and I have  _ Invicta _ and  _ Victoria _ ,” Romulus said, “ _ Unconquered _ and  _ Victory _ . You should name them in your own languages, call on your people again if you like.”

“I’ll call mine…  _ Danseur _ ,” Gallia said eventually, “ _ The Dancer _ . Elegant, but purposeful.”

“A good name,” Aegyptus said agreeably, “I think I’ll call mine…  _ Dhakira _ .  _ Memory. _ I may not be as great as my mother, but I will always stand as a memory to her accomplishments.”

“A noble sentiment,” Hispania nodded, “I’ll call mine  _ Conquistador. The Conqueror! _ Because someday, Pater, my empire will be bigger and better than yours!”

Romulus laughed, “A worthy goal, Antonius, but I intend to give you a high standard.”

Hispania grinned devilishly, “The challenge excites me!”

“I’ll call mine  _ Missionis _ ,” Italia said, placing his staff in the ground to hold it as a walking stick, “ _ The Missionary _ . Just a wandering peacher, ready to defend himself if necessary.”

“What about you, Ioannes?” Britannia asked.

Lusitania grinned, “ _ Colhona _ ,” he said, and Hispania choked to stifle a laugh.

Byzantium furrowed his brow suspiciously, “What does that mean?”

“Bravery,” Ioannes said innocently. Hispania choked again, harder this time, and his eyes bulged.

Britannia was Ioannes’s saving grace, as he stepped forward to name his weapon. “ _ Caliburn _ ,” he said.

“Caliburn?” Romulus questioned, “What does that mean?”

“It was the name of King Arthur’s sword, the Sword in the Stone,” Arthurus explained.

“I thought that was Excalibur,” Gallia responded.

“In the later legends, yes,” Arthurus said, “But in the earliest ones, it wasn’t any holy or divine sword, it was simply well made, and it was called Caliburn. I’m not a king yet, but I will be. When I reach the same stature as Pater, then I will call it Excalibur.” The Romans stood in shocked silence.

“Good job, all of you,” Romulus said eventually, “Byzantium, bring them back to the villa. Britannia, stay here for a moment, would you?”

The other provinces shuffled out of the Colosseum, lead by Byzantium, and left Romulus and Arthurus alone. “You did a very mature thing today, Britannia,” Romulus said to him, “Which is why I think you are ready. Bring out the Red Dragon!” At the order, one of the servants spurred into action, taking away the weapons rack and fetching the gladiator from his quarters.

Britannia shifted nervously from foot to foot, unsure of what his pater was doing, but soon he saw the slaves lead in a gladiator whose clothes were still covered in the crimson stains of lion blood, his silvery blonde head bowed in submission, and his hands hanging limply at his sides. This was obviously a man who had been broken. Britannia felt a strange connection to him, but he couldn’t quite place it…

“Britannia. Britannia, are you listening?” Romulus asked, and Arthurus jumped.

“Yes, Pater. Sorry, I was… lost in thought,” he responded, “Who is that?”

“No one special,” Romulus said dismissively, “A Celtic barbarian I brought in to spruce up the fights here. He’s very good against the lions. The crowd began calling him  _ Rufus Draco _ , the Red Dragon. Rather flashy, don’t you think?”

“Why have you brought him out here?” Britannia asked, and his eyes flicked to the barbarian as he stirred out of whatever stupor he was in.

“I want you to kill him,” Romulus said evenly.

“Wh-what!?” Britannia balked.

“You heard me,” Romulus said, “He’s a no one, Arthurē, an enemy of Rome. He and his countrymen have been a thorn in my side for decades. He’s just a  _ barbarian _ , a subhuman wretch that does not deserve the glory of Rome, not even in its Colosseum. You’ve just picked out your new sword; kill him.”

“I… I…” Britannia stared at the Red Dragon, “I…”

The Red Dragon looked up, and Britannia was struck by the sorrow in those piercing amber eyes. The wretchedness of his gaunt features, his complete and utter hopelessness. “I can’t,” Britannia said finally.

Unseen by Arthurus, Romulus narrowed his eyes, “Why?” he questioned.

“He’s unarmed,” Britannia supplied, “He’s a warrior, isn’t he? Even if he is a barbarian, he should die with dignity.”

“Well said, Arthurē,” Romulus said, then he turned to the Red Dragon, “Well, you heard him. Get yourself a weapon,  _ Rufus Draco _ .”

The Red Dragon jumped, then took the bow and measly amount of arrows offered to him by a slave. “There,” Romulus said, “Now fight.”

Britannia charged, and the Red Dragon jumped to the side, drawing his bow and firing in one swift motion. The arrow glanced off of Britannia’s armor like a child’s toy, so Arthurus switched his grip on Caliburn and swung it wide, catching the bowstring and snapping it in two. His bow now useless, the Red Dragon took two arrows from his quiver and snapped them over his knees, using the arrowheads like knives as he settled into a fighting stance. Then, as he was about to charge forward, his eyes widened in horrified recognition. “Albion?” he whispered.

Britannia kicked the arrowheads out of the Red Dragon’s hands and put the tip of Caliburn to the barbarian’s heart. “Who the hell is Albion?” he asked, genuinely confused.

The fleeting hope in the barbarian’s eyes turned to sorrow, and he sighed sadly. “Oh,  _ Albion _ ,” he murmured, “What has he done to you, lad?”

Britannia looked at Romulus uncertainly, and Romulus simply extended his hand and slowly turned his thumb down, the signal to kill. Britannia looked at the poor soul in front of him. “Sorry, Cymru,” he said, and he thrust Caliburn through the Welshman’s heart, killing him. WIth the present nations, Britain looked at Wales in shock as the Welshman rubbed his chest instinctively. Britain settled on giving Romulus the death glare.

As Britannia wiped Caliburn off, Romulus smiled at him and took him by the shoulder, “Good job,  _ filius meus, _ you did well. Now, let’s go back to the villa to celebrate with the others, eh?”

Britannia nodded absentmindedly and put Caliburn back in its sheath, wondering where on Earth he’d gotten the name “Cymru” from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, Britain gets a Bucky moment. You're welcome.
> 
> Also:  
> Byzantium calls his shield "Unbreakable" because the Byzantine capital of Constantinople was nigh impregnable, only being felled by gunpowder weaponry in 1453  
> Portugal has a Carracks Black Sword, which he calls "Colhona." Colhona means "Big Balls" in Portuguese, and Spain was losing his shit because he was the only one who understood.


	45. The Folly of the Barbarians

Romulus blanched as the next scene shimmered to life. In the forests of Celtic Britannia, a past version of Scotland, or Alba, at this point, strode through the woods. Soon, Alba stopped as he came upon a cliffside and gasped lowly.

The cliffside was covered in blood, with a spear stabbed into the ground below, skewering a familiar body. Cymru hung limp from the spear, his head bowed over the tip, with a message written in blood above his body. Alba had learned how to read Latin, just in case something like this happened, and grimaced as he read it.  **“Stay away from the boy.”** Suddenly, Cymru twitched, and came alive again. Then, the Welshman noticed the spear in his gut, and screamed in fear and pain.

“Holy, shit, Cymru!” Alba cried, running forward and pulling his brother off the deadly decoration, “What the hell happened to you!? We’ve been looking for you for years!”

Cymru gasped as his brother pulled him off, “Albion,” he gasped, gritting his teeth against the pain, “Rome has Albion!”

“Yeah, we noticed,” Alba growled, ripping off a piece of his tartan to staunch the bleeding from Cymru’s chest wound, “He’s been missing for centuries. So, may I remind you, have  _ you! _ What the hell happened out there, Dylan?”

Dylan groaned as his eyes fluttered up into his head, “I.. I was put in the Colosseum,” he muttered breathlessly, “Lions… gods, so many lions…”

“Hey, hey, stay with me, Dyl,” Allistor said urgently, patting his brother’s face to keep him focused.

“Arthur… Arthur doesn’t remember anything about himself,” Dylan continued, talking in order to stay awake, “He thinks he’s Rome’s son. It’s sickening… gods, I’m so tired…”

“Was it Rome who did this?” Allistor asked, gesturing to the wound.

“I think he might’ve done the spear thing,” Dylan said through gritted teeth, “But the last thing I remember was… was… oh, gods…”

“Stay awake, Cymru!” Alba cried, and Dylan shook his head weakly.

“Not that,” he said, “Arthur… Arthur was the one who killed me… Rome was there, he ordered him to do it… the bastard, he… he  _ smiled _ …”

Allistor shivered, “It’s as we feared,” he murmured, as if only to himself, “He’s too far gone…”

“Maybe not… he remembered my name,” Cymru told him hopefully, and Allistor jumped at his voice. Dylan smiled grimly as his eyes fluttered open and closed. “We’ll get him back, Al,” the dying Celt said with conviction.

“Maybe so,” Allistor agreed, “But will we find him, or will he find us?”

Dylan couldn’t answer him. Instead, the young Celt let his eyes closed, “I’m gonna let this heal now, Al,” he said softly, “Be a lamb and carry me home to Mum, would you?”

Allistor nodded, pretending there wasn’t a lump in his throat, “Of course,” he said shakily, “You just go’n rest now.” Dylan sighed a long, sad sigh, and Allistor knew he was gone. He’d come back, all nations did, but still… dying was never a pleasant thing, even for immortals. The emptiness, the cold, the feeling of your soul shuffling off the mortal coil, only to fall back down to the bottom and get right back on. It was hard to explain, but it was a terrifying experience.

With the present nations, there were no words strong enough in any language on earth to describe the awkwardness that plagued the Romance Family. Scotland and Wales were looking warily and England, Rome was looking pointedly at the ground, Italy hovered uncertainly by Germany’s side, uncertain of whose side he should take, Byzantium stood by his father, silently challenging anyone to say anything not to his liking, and all the while Celtica had a cruel grin on her face as she watched Romulus finally suffer for his transgressions. Granted, it wasn’t her dreams of torture and mutilation, but it was a start.

The next vision began. This was obviously Rome as its power was starting to wane, but it did nothing to halt the splendor of the city. Sure the Colosseum was a little run down, and the Circus Maximus wasn’t quite as grand as it used to be, but the world still very much belonged to Rome. In the middle of the Via Appia, in front of the grand Septizodium, Romulus stood in a regal band, flanked by his sons on either side. Byzantium was absent, likely attending to duties in the east, but Britannia, Hispania, Lusitania, Aegyptus, and Christianitatis (formerly Italia) were present and looking very imposing. Their weapons by their side, the Provinces of Rome cut an impressive figure, especially now that they were all young adults in their own rights. In contrast, Rome himself, though still full of life and energy, had noticeably slowed down in his old age. His once jet black hair was now plagued by the beginnings of salt-and-pepper, and there were a few more creases in his skin than the usual crows’ feet.

More important, however, was the procession approaching the Romans. Striding through the Via Appia, the heart of the empire, was a group made up of what was unmistakably barbarians. In the front, leading along his small family of sons and daughters, was none other than Folkert Beilschmidt, the Ancient Germania. In the group of Germanians, many European nations recognized younger versions of Prussia, Netherlands, Hungary, Switzerland, Lichtenstein, and Austria. 

As the two groups approached, Romulus and Folkert stepped out to meet each other. The Barbarian King and the Roman Empire eyed each other up, and Romulus spoke first. “Welcome to Rome, Germania,” he said cordially, “It is an honor to finally meet you outside the battlefield.”

“Likewise,” Folkert said curtly, his accented Latin like steel on a cheesegrater.

“I trust you and your family will settle in well,” Romulus went on, “Where is the child Ludwig I’ve heard so much about? You know, my boy Clemens just recently had two little ones of his own, Feliciano and Lovino. How old you and I have become!”

“Just you, I’m afraid,” Folkert informed him, “I do not yet have grandchildren.”

Romulus sighed, “I hate to say it, but I feel you’re right. I can feel these old bones creak and quake in the mornings now. But, the children are good for me, they keep me on my toes. Why, just last week Feliciano-”

“Enough with the idle chatter, Romulus,” Folkert snapped, “Or have you become senile already?”

Romulus’s smile died in an instant. “Back to business, then,” he said, “I invited you here to give you a proposition.”

“No,” Folkert said immediately.

“You haven’t even heard it yet!” Romulus protested.

“I’m not interested,” Folkert reiterated, starting to turn away, but Romulus caught his arm.

“You would not have brought your family halfway across Europa through enemy territory if you weren’t at least interested,” he said, and Folkert begrudgingly resumed a neutral stance.

“Go on,” he said shortly.

“I’d like to hire you as my bodyguard,” Romulus said, straightening back to his full height, on equal terms with the barbarian, “You’ll be compensated for your troubles handsomely. A villa in Rome. Personal servants to care for your ever-burgeoning family. Not a care in the world - except my safety, of course.”

Folkert narrowed his eyes. “You’ve grown so weak that you need protection?” he breathed.

Romulus smirked coldly, “I  _ never _ need protection, Folkert,” for emphasis, the braziers around them flared to life, then died back down just as quickly, “But, as the wise men say, ‘keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’. You’re one troublesome thorn in my side, Folkert, so I’m keeping tabs on you the best way I know how. Who knows, by the end of this, we may even become friends.”

Folkert growled. “Friends are to be earned, not bought,” he spat, “And what is to stop me from taking my family and leaving this wretched place right now?”

“The four legions of my loyalest soldiers waiting outside for just such an occasion,” Romulus said casually, “Oh, and… I know  _ exactly _ where Baby Ludwig is.”

Folkert paled drastically. After a few beats of palpable silence, he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “Very well,” he growled.

“ _ Optime! _ ” Romulus said, and he turned to the Germanic Children, kneeling down to be on their level, “ _ Salve _ , little ones, my name is Romulus. I’ll be your uncle from now on, and you and your Vater can live in my city with me, alright?” Romulus certainly had a way with children. The kids smiled meekly at the kindly old Roman as Folkert watched on in horror, knowing full well that his family’s lives were in danger if he spoke up.

The Provinces of Rome started moving in, making friends with the younger personifications. “Remember, little guy, there’s nothing more important in this world than unimaginable wealth! Money makes the world go round!” Hispania insisted to Little Netherlands, and the tiny barbarian nodded vehemently.

“‘Money makes the world go round’! Got it!” he repeated, the gleam in his eyes looking adorable to those that knew his modern personality.

“You need to be able to protect yourself and those you care about,” Aegyptus said to Switzerland, “Nothing else matters more. Remember, if you don’t bother others, others won’t bother you.” Switzerland nodded gravely, like this was the only life lesson he’d ever need to know.

“Hello there young man!” Christianitatis said to Little Prussia, “You look like you enjoy a life of action! What if I told you you could travel the world and have all sorts of adventures as a knight of the Lord?” Prussia’s pink eyes widened astronomically.

“Sign me up!” he insisted, and Clemens chuckled to himself as he launched into a sermon.

Folkert and Romulus stared each other down over the scene, and both knew that Romulus was totally in charge of the situation. This was the final triumph. The world belonged to  **Rome** .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! Six minutes to midnight!
> 
> Have fun with all that foreshadowing! Please leave comments!


	46. The Old Roman and his Family

The nations looked nervously between Romulus and Folkert, whom were pointedly looking away from each other. Meanwhile, Ludwig frowned in confusion. He was younger than even America, how was it that he was a baby in Rome’s time? He subconsciously looked at Prussia, but his older brother was wholly absorbed in the non-staring match between Rome and Germania. Or he was ignoring him. But why would his brother ignore him? Ludwig hummed unhappily to himself. Ever dutiful to his friend, Feliciano sensed his displeasure and immediately latched on to his arm, smiling brightly and making Ludwig’s face go red. Sighing as he lost his train of thought again, Ludwig merely patted Italy’s head and continued watching the visions.

The next scene shimmered to life, and Germania stood with his back to a wall as Romulus strapped on his armor. The old Roman winced as he twisted a little to far, and Germania stiffened, his hand drifting toward his spear. “Don’t bother, Folkert,” Romulus chuckled, “I’m just stiff, not so old yet that you can kill me in my own dressing room.”

Folkert hummed vaguely, leaning back against the wall once more.

“I really wish you’d learn to trust me more,” Romulus sighed, and there seemed to be genuine sadness in his voice, “I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“The only reason I am still here is because you have hung the Sword of Damocles over the heads of my family,” Folkert reminded him, “Given the chance, I will kill you with impunity. I have no interest in becoming your confidant, nor your friend.”

Romulus turned as he finished fastening his armor, and the nations noticed more gray in his hair than usual. “I hope one day I can change your mind, barbarian scum,” Romulus smiled sadly. This time he used the term not in a derogatory fashion, but as an endearing name, like they were old friends. Folkert scowled at him. Romulus shook his head and stepped out of the room, Germania falling in behind him, and soon the pair were outside. They were standing on a beach, the Meditteranean lazily lapping at the shoreline, and the small hut the two had been in was the only standing structure for miles. 

“Why are we here?” Folkert asked irritably, shaking sand out of his leather boot, “There is no important province here, no major center of your power. Just some burnt beach in Africa.”

“A lot happened on this burnt beach in Africa, Folkert,” Romulus sighed, stepping forward and kneeling in the sand, facing the water and the setting sun, “This used to be one of my favorite spots in the whole world. I lived here for months. I fell in love for the first time here. Then I foolishly and selfishly burned it to the ground. I salted the earth and made sure the people who lived here would never rise again, all for power and control.”

Folkert looked at the back of his head judgingly, “I see not much has changed,” he muttered.

“Jab at me all you want, it won’t matter,” the Roman sighed sadly, “Not here. Not anymore.”

Folkert stood in silence as Romulus set up a small memorial, with a single candle of incense and an old carving of two young men, one in white and the other in yellow, holding hands in a garden. As the memorial was laid in the sand, Romulus sighed and bowed his head to the ground, praying. After a time had passed, he sat up, then turned and invited Folkert to sit with him, shifting out of his own kneeling stance. Folkert reluctantly lowered himself to the sand, sitting up straight as opposed to Romulus’s reclining position. “You’re the only one I’ve ever brought here, you know,” Rome said in the silence, “I haven’t even brought Byzantium here. I actually forbade him from ever coming here. The other boys too.”

“Why?” Folkert asked, staring at the Roman intently.

“I want you to understand me, Folkert, just like I want to understand you,” Romulus sighed, “I’m not some hideous monster that conquers and destroys for fun. I do it out of necessity. If not for me, the world would be run by barbarians, people burning people alive, squatting in the mud, stewing in their own filth. I do everything I can to make sure that cultures are preserved. The important parts, the language, the people. They can become so much more with the proper guidance.”

“Yet Iberia and Gaul faded away after you conquered them,” Folkert reminded him, and Romulus inclined his head.

“True,” he said, “It was never my intention, but their cultures just didn’t survive, I’m afraid. And I had to do away with Gaul. He was traumatizing poor Gallia with his mass sacrifices.”

Folkert shifted uncomfortably. Gaul had always been the problem child of the Europeans. Too wild. Too reckless. “And what of the people who lived here, what about them? Why did they have to die?”

Romulus looked pained. “They didn’t…” he sighed, pain lacing every word, “I lost control. The love of my life lived here, and when he screamed at me that he hated me, I couldn’t take it. My Senate wanted him dead in the first place, I was hurt, but I was also in love. And love is a burning thing, like a ring of fire. And it burned so much. Before I knew what was happening, I realized I’d actually burned Carthage to the ground. All its people, all its accomplishments. Gone. In an instant.”

Folkert stared, “The Flame of Europa…” he breathed.

“My first time using it like that,” Romulus admitted, “I did a terrible thing. And it was neither the first time nor the last. Sometimes I wonder how the world will remember me, as a demon or as an angel. More importantly, how do I  _ deserve  _ to be remembered? If you asked Atlan, he’d probably curse up a storm at me. He hates me now. Or… he hated me then. I’m not sure if he passed on or not. I hope he found someplace peaceful… he earned it.”

“You talk as if you are dying,” Folkert scoffed, “I’ve fought you for centuries. Do not give up on life so easily. I wish to kill you myself.”

Romulus smiled sadly, “Ah, but I  _ am  _ dying, Folkert, we all are. I’m not stupid. I knew as soon as the boys began to grow that I was leaving this world. I can feel my power draining, my influence becoming more and more sparse. I can hardly stand to wake up in the morning anymore, because dear gods, what’s the  _ point!? _ I have lived for centuries! I have seen countless atrocities, most of which committed in my name or conducted by my hand!” Romulus had raised his voice, and was now shouting at the sky, “It’s as if the gods are taunting me! As soon as I begin to think that I am immortal, and that Rome’s splendor will go on forever, I learn that I am dying! My politicians are corrupt, my military only seeks personal glory, my joints ache in the morning, day, and night, and I’m just  _ so tired! _ I just want it all to end already, Folkert!” He looked at his enemy, and Folkert started as he realized the Roman was crying. “But they are punishing me, I know it!” he croaked, “Atlan, Isabella, Vocorix, hell, even father! They’ve cursed me! Cursed me with a slow, painful death, that I’ve seen coming for ages yet cannot stop! And perhaps I deserve it, for what I did, but my people do not! They should not suffer for my transgressions! They should be allowed to live, should they not? Should they not, Folkert!?”

Folkert stared. “Yes,” he agreed eventually, “Some of your people are innocent. They do not deserve such low quality of life.”

“All I have to go on anymore is this damned Flame!” Romulus scoffed, lighting a fire in his palm, “I hate it! But I am the only one who can handle it. I am the only one who can do anything around here! … … … I’m scared, Folkert. What will the world be like when I die? Will my sons band together, start the empire anew? Will they fragment and hate each other? Or worse still, kill each other, as I killed Atlan? Will anyone remember me? My people? My accomplishments? Will anyone remember the good, or only the bad? I’m just… so scared. But time is short for me, and one thing I can do is keep my people happy. That’s why I come here, to lift the burden from my shoulders every once and a while to make sure I can keep putting on the show for my people. Bread and circuses should keep them happy until it all falls down.”

“Would it not be better to have them prepare to fight?” Folkert asked, “Tell them what’s coming?”

“And have them live in paranoia for the rest of their lives? No, I don’t think so,” Romulus sighed, “Better to let them enjoy Rome while it lasts.”

The two sat in stony silence. Suddenly, Rome broke down in tears, “I’m so sorry, Carthage!” he wailed, “You should be here! At my side, together with me! But I had to drive you away! I had to kill you for my own selfish stupidity! And I know that you won’t have me anymore, but even after all these years! … … after all these years… I still love you…”

Atlan stared at Romulus as the scene ended, and the conference room shimmered back into view. The book remained open on the table, face up. Celtica growled, “You think just because you apologized that makes everything better!?” Atlan looked at her with a pained expression.

“I know,” Romulus said sadly, “But all the cards are on the table. Atlan: I still love you. I’ve loved you for a thousand years, and I’ll love you for a thousand more. Everyday, I prayed that you would forgive me for what I did, but I knew you never would. I knew I was never destined for love. All those I loved had a sword at their back or a shackle on their wrist.” Rome looked defeated, his shoulders slumped and his hair even more gray than usual.

“That’s not true!” Byzantium cried, trying to comfort his father, but Rome brushed him off.

“Yes it is. I’ve lived a hollow life. My Romans accomplished so many things, but at what price? The eradication of everything else I loved? I’ve committed more crimes than any man, woman, or child alive. I know I never deserved love, but I yearned for it all the same. I was a fool. Congratulations are in order for you, Celtica, I suppose. Because I’ll finally admit it. I. was. wrong. You’ve done it. I lost. I get it now. The world was better off without me in it,” Romulus’s fiery eyes looked dull and ashen, tears welling up in them. Before he could let them fall, he turned and began to stalk out of the room, his tattered cape dragging on the floor, “Now leave me alone. At least let me die in peace this time.”

The nations stood in a shocked silence as the conference room stood still. Finally, Atlan burst forth from the group, and grabbed Romulus by the arm.

“Carthage, what are you doi-mmff!” Romulus asked and Atlan stopped him with a kiss. Rome’s eyes widened in surprise, but soon he melted into it, hugging the Carthaginian tight and not letting go.

Celtica eyed the scene in confusion. It didn’t make sense; Carthage was supposed to be her ally in her anti-Rome crusade, so why was he comforting the man that broke his heart? He was ruining her plan!

Finally, the two broke apart, and Romulus took a shaky breath. “Why?” he asked breathlessly, and Carthage blushed furiously and looked at the ground.

“I never stopped loving you either,” he said eventually, “I was just angry at you. And I haven’t forgiven you for burning me, but you knew what you did was wrong. And you visited my city every year afterward. I never understood why, but after all this, I… I get it now, Rome. You were an immortal faced with his own mortality, and you didn’t know how to react. You lashed out, did everything you could to make sure your people were safe when you died. In your own twisted way, you tried to do what was right in the end. The point is, Rome, you  _ matter _ . Without you, life would fucking suck, no matter what Celtica says. Hell, half the people in this room wouldn’t even exist if not for you. I can’t be mad at you, Iulius, not anymore. I love you too much for that. As long as you say that you’re not afraid of your past, and that you want to make it better, I’m… willing to give this another shot.”

The nations stood in shocked silence. “You… you’d do that… for me?” Romulus choked, emotion overwhelming him.

“As long as you swear you will make things right!” Atlan insisted, and Romulus nodded vigorously.

“Absolutely, I swear I’ll make this up to all of you,” he said solemnly, “Wait, no… I swear it on the River Styx!”

Athens’s eyes widened. “That’s incredibly binding, Romulus,” he said, “Like, death-penalty binding. Are you sure?”

“Very,” he said confidently, “I swear. No one will ever say Rome did a bad thing from here on out! From now on, I am a new man!” With his declaration, the room was ringed with fire for just a moment, before returning to its previous boring state.

“I suppose the gods agree,” Crete said sagely, “You have done well, Romulus.”

“I suppose you are not as bad as I thought…” Folkert gritted his teeth, “For you to make such a declaration…” 

Skandia laughed good-naturedly. “I didn’t really care in the first place, I came down to see my boys!” he grabbed the Nordics in a giant bear-hug, “You’re okay in my book, Rome!”

Israel scoffed in annoyance. “I promise I won’t shoot you,” he said. From the Israeli, that might as well have been a six page love poem.

Wales only nodded at Rome, a simple but relieving gesture.

The last two were Britain and Celtica. Celtica growled as her plan fell apart, “I don’t understand,” she said, “I’ve imagined killing you for years! Centuries! You weren’t supposed to have a heart! You were supposed to be a monster! Someone easy to put an arrow through! Dammit, Romulus, how can you be so damned… understandable, after all that!?”

“That’s the power of the book,” Virginia informed her, “It’s time to let go, Celtica. Let bygones be bygones.”

Celtica’s gaze darted from the state, to her family, to Rome, and back again. “Fine,” she muttered, “I still don’t like you, but I suppose I can’t find it in myself to hate you anymore.”

Romulus beamed. He turned to Britain. “What about you, Britain? … son?” he asked timidly.

Britain’s deep emerald eyes stared into Romulus’s fiery red. “You took me from my family and brainwashed me,” he began, and Rome crumpled, “I should hate you. I should put a bullet between your eyes and call it a day, but… despite all that very logical thinking, there seems to be this damnable thing called emotion in the way. I’ve been thinking about this long and hard, Romulus, and I’ve come to a conclusion. For the longest time, I considered you some sort of god, a golden standard for all subsequent empires to live up to and surpass. But, after seeing your experiences through this book, all your mistakes and crimes and sins, I’ve seen a disturbing reflection of myself. As such, I can’t find it in myself to hate you, because you and I are two of a kind. We are both men living off of old glory, our empires are long gone, and we’re in denial. We both made mistakes that we are not proud of, but we must find some part of ourselves to love, even with the dark histories that we share. Therefore… I’ve decided that you and I are still family, Romulus. Because family sticks together, regardless of the turbulent times ahead. However, I won’t be calling you ‘pater’ anymore. We are equals now.”

Romulus stared as the Brit finished his speech, than smiled a watery, happy smile, “Of course. equals.  _ Gratias, Arthurē _ .”

“ _ Nihil est, Romulē, _ ” Britain responded, and the room felt cozy again.

“Alright, come on, group hug everybody!” Skandia exclaimed, and Folkert and Ludwig paled. 

“Bruder, no…” Folkert warned, but Erak was too far gone.

With no one able to escape, the burly Vikinger grabbed everyone he could and smushed them into a giant hug, with his Nordic accomplices rounding up the stragglers. “Come on, feel the love!” Erak crowed, and Fiona groaned. Russia smiled softly at the contact, and America grinned as he put Alexander in a fake choke hold. England grimaced as Scotland caught him in a bear hug, and Erin laughed as Ireland and Wales hugged her from either side. To save her from being trampled, Alaska lifted Hawaii onto his shoulders, where the girl hugged France’s neck, and Canada laughed as Prussia hugged him around his waist. 

Romulus, meanwhile, laughed all the while, his relief flooding his brain as Carthage was pressed against his arm. He had a massive, crazy, kooky, insane, possibly psychotic, and loving family. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't let this fool you, I am still doing the Fall of Rome, but that'll act more as the beginning of next arc rather than the end of this one. Prepare thineselves, for next week we delve into the Sons of Rome!


	47. Put Out the Light

The next day, the nations filed back into the conference room. This time, though, before Ludwig or Alexander could get to the podium, Basil took possession of the book. Confused, but not willing to speak up, Alexander and Ludwig awkwardly took their seats at the table. Romulus, now sitting at the foot of the table beside Atlan, looked at his son with a bit of confusion. Byzantium shifted uncertainly from foot to foot, then started speaking. “I know what’s going to happen next,” he said tentatively, “And we’ll need to watch it eventually, but I just want to warn everyone; this next one is going to be the Fall of Rome. It’s too important of an event for the book not to touch on it. I know we all just made amends, but all those wounds are about to be torn right back open. Before we start, I just want everyone to be prepared.”

“We are all adults here,” Germania said, “I believe we can handle it.”

“‘Believe’ being the operative word,” Byzantium muttered under his breath. He turned the page.

The nations were surrounded by the scenery of a darkened forest. Around a grand fire, several barbarian nations stood. Celtica, Alba, Iberia, a severely wounded Gaul, and finally Germania himself. “Thank you all for meeting me here,” Celtica began, “I trust you all know what must be done?”

“We must kill Rome,” Iberia said solemnly, “And wrest from him the Flame of Europa.”

“That power belongs to us!” Gaul cried vehemently, “His blood shall be burnt to please the gods!”

“But we’ve gotta do this all careful-like,” Alba chimed in, throwing a stick onto the fire, “Rome may not be as strong as he was, but he’s still damn strong. Not to mention he’s got almost our entire families on his side.”

Germania’s fist tightened, “I have hidden my children amongst the forests of my country,” he said, “Rome will not find them. But… I can still see the influence he and his brood had on them. I fear they are already smitten with him.”

“They’re not _his_ brood!” Celtica cried, “They’re _ours!_ We must fight to have them back!”

“That damned ungrateful brat, Gallia!” Gaul swore, “When I get my hands on him, I swear I’ll sacrifice him to the gods in a Burning Man! That should teach him some respect!”

The barbarians shifted uncomfortably. No one liked how crazy Gaul was, but when it came to war, you called the crazies to do your bidding. “Back to the Flame,” Celtica said, rerouting the conversation away from Gaul, “Folkert, you’ve spent considerable time with the enemy. Do you know where it is?”

“I believe so,” Germania said, “He once showed me something he refers to as ‘The Light of Rome’. It was a grand brazier in the Temple of the Vestal Virgins. If he keeps the Flame anywhere, it will be there, in one of the most revered spots of the city.”

“What about the Lupercal?” Alba asked, “If I had something that important, I’d keep it locked deep underground, right underneath the seat of my power. Much like the Lupercal is under the Palatine Hill.”

“I’ve been in the Lupercal,” Folkert responded calmly, “It is certainly a nexus of Rome’s power, but there is no brazier there, and there are no other rooms. The Flame is in the Temple of the Vestal Virgins, I’m sure of it.”

“Then it’s decided,” Celtica said resolutely, “When we storm Rome, we’ll target the Temple of the Vestal Virgins.”

Gaul licked his lips in grotesque glee, “They won’t be virgins by the time _I’m_ done with ‘em!”

Iberia shivered. “Enough of this,” Germania said, pointedly ignoring Gaul, “We attack in the morning, at first light. I’ll see you all on the battlefield.”

A cold wind blew through the forests of Europe, and the great fire swayed and flickered. The nations watched as the fire flared, then the image shimmered and faded into a scene of Rome. 

The Eternal City, the Capital of the World, the great metropolis of Rome stood in shambles. The Colosseum looked closer to what it did in the present day, a large chunk of the once great structure missing. Statues and artwork that had once decorated the Roman Forum were now absent, replaced by graffiti and paupers. The Circus Maximus had been levelled to the ground. Alone atop the Palatine Hill, the Palace of Augustus stood bare, almost all its treasures emptied and its occupants had fled. The last Roman Emperor had fled to the East, leaving none to rule but Romulus Augustus Iulius Mucius Scaevola Caesar Patricanus Deus himself. The personification of the Roman Empire looked very old, and very tired. His once brown hair was totally gray, his smiling face was pulled into a deep, scowling frown, his crow’s feet had developed into deep wrinkles denoting his advanced age. A personification’s appearance usually reflected the state of their nation, and sure enough, Rome looked like he was about to go knocking on Death’s door. This is not to say he was weak, regardless of his age, the nations could still see the power welling deep within, the fire dancing in his eyes, hungry, dangerous. But not as bright as it once was. Rome sat on the throne of the Roman Emperor, in the Palace of Augustus, a palace he’d helped to build, and he simply held his spear out in front of him. He was not dressed for war, merely in a purple toga and a golden laurel crown, but he held out his spear all the same, sitting regally on the throne. He may be old, he may be weaker than he was, but he was still powerful. And he knew how to fight.

“Caesar! Caesar!” a Roman sentry cried, running into the throne room, “The barbarians! They’ve arrived at _Roma!_ ”

Romulus’s gaze darkened. “Rally the legions,” he said gravely, standing up as his armor shimmered onto his frame, “I will lead them into battle myself.”

“ _Ave, Caesar!_ ” the sentry cried, saluting, then he ran out of the room once more. 

Rome settled his gaze on the dying city before him. “ _Roma_ ,” he said, “I’m afraid our time together has come to an end. Though this is the end, though my strength has left me and gone to my sons, though I have scattered the embers of my Flame, though I am old and weak, I promise to you… I will keep your people safe, as long as I can. Please, _Roma_ , lend me your strength one last time... _Senatus Populusque Romanus!_ ” Rome’s eyes glowed a fiery red, and his grip tightened around his spear. He clipped his shield to his hook, then set forth down the Palatine Hill. The Light of Rome would be put out, that much was clear… but if Rome was to burn, he would burn bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there~!  
> Next chapter will be the FoR, and the rest of the arc will be the aftermath, hence the name "Sons of Rome". This'll mainly deal with the Europeans and how screwed up their family is, so strap in, boys and girls, we're going on another emotional rollercoaster!
> 
> PS, a friend of mine brought this up after this fic blew up into something really big, if there are any artistic members of the audience out there, I will happily accept any and all fanart! Please just leave a link in the comments!


	48. The Fall of Rome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romulus faces his final hours, sacrificing himself to save his people

The scene blurred, and soon Romulus was standing in front of hundreds of Roman legionnaires. The men looked tired and scared, but convicted. Romulus scanned them all with his watchful gaze. “I will not lie to you,” he began, his elderly voice straining to be heard over the roar of chaos outside the fort’s doors, “You face the Final Day of Rome. This is it. We have no hope of winning today. But there have been times when Rome should have fallen before. We should have fallen when Dido cast out Aeneas and the Trojans! We should have fallen when the Etruscans waged war against us! We should have fallen when Hannibal brought his elephants over the Alps! We should have fallen when Caesar marched across the Rubicon with his army! We should have fallen after Nero let our city burn! We should have fallen after countless civil wars that threatened to tear our empire apart at the seams! But we held firm! We struggled on to become the greatest nation the world had ever seen, or ever will see for the next thousand years!” The legionnaires cheered, pounding their shields in agreement. Romulus went on, “For centuries, the path of Rome has been one of struggle and determination, of perseverance and ascension, but most of all, one of greatness. Though our time has come to an end, Rome will always be remembered as one of the greatest empires to have ever existed, and now its legacy falls to you, my legions! To safeguard the Roman legacy, to safeguard the Roman people, we must fight these barbarians for as long as we can! We must battle them to the bitter end and defend our beloved home! We must show them that the great and powerful Rome will not go quietly into the night, like a dying candle! We shall burn brightly, as a second sun, and burn them with Apollo’s Fury!”

At this, the legions cheered again, thrusting their spears out in enthusiasm. Romulus looked each man in the eye, then began his battle muster. “ _ Senatus Populusque Romanus!”  _ he shouted. “ _ For the Senate, and the People of Rome!” _

“ _ SENATUS POPULUSQUE ROMANUS!!”  _ the legions returned.

_ “Imperatoris Populusque Romanus!”  _ Romulus cried again. “ _ For the Emperor, and the People of Rome! _ ”

“ _ IMPERATORIS POPULUSQUE ROMANUS!!” _

Romulus turned toward the massive doors, then gave one final cry. “ _ Populus Romanus. _ ” “ _ For the People of Rome. _ ”

The legionnaires didn’t hesitate, shouting back “ _ POPULUS ROMANUS!!” _ The doors swung wide, and the legions charged. Rome, the Eternal City, was now a battlefield.

As the battle raged, the nations watched as Romulus killed barbarian after barbarian, impaling them with his spear and knocking them back with his shield. Although he was aged, he was far from decrepit, and few barbarians stood a chance against him. At his side soon appeared Britannia, Gallia, and Christianitatis, all fighting alongside their father. The four soon found themselves at the Temple of the Vestal Virgins, where the Light of Rome was said to be kept, and Rome turned to his sons. “Stay here,  _ mi fili _ , and guard this door,” he commanded them, “I must make sure that something within is still safe.”

“Of course,  _ Pater _ ,” Britannia responded, drawing  _ Caliburn _ , “We’ll stand guard and assist the legions.”

“Good,” Romulus said, almost to himself, “Good…” Rome pushed open to doors of the Temple. As he had feared, most of the Vestal Virgins lay dead, those that remained resisting a horrifying abuse from lascivious barbarian warriors, and Rome’s eyes narrowed. These women had taken a vow, to keep the secrets of Rome safe, and now they were paying the price for his failure. No longer. Rome growled, and his eyes glowed as his fist burned. He charged at the barbarians, spear in hand, and they barely had time to scream. He slaughtered them with impunity, stabbing one through the heart with his spear, then burning another with his Flame. After it was done, he knelt beside one of the Vestals, the poor girl couldn’t have been more than thirteen. “Are you alright?” he asked gently, and the girl nodded weakly.

“Y-yes… oh, God, thank you!” she said shakily, “They were… they were… horrible…”

“Shh, you’re alright now,” he said, “I need to get to the Eternal Flame. Do you know if it is safe?”

“I… I don’t know,” the Vestal admitted, “Their leaders, they forced their way into the chamber. Mater Livilla tried to stop them, but the one with the hatchet, the Gaul, he… he killed her and violated her body. Then he ordered his men to do the same to us!” The poor Vestal broke into tears as the horror of what had happened to her set in.

Rome’s stomach dropped. Did Vocorix’s barbary know no bounds? “It’s going to be alright now,” Rome lied, “I will keep you safe. What is your name?”

“A-Augusta…” she whispered hoarsely between sobs.

“You carry a noble name, Augusta,” Rome said to her, “Gather the other Vestals that are still alive. Take them to my sons, waiting just outside the Temple, and tell them to escort you away from the city, then return here as quickly as possible.”

Augusta nodded, starting to stand, then turned back to him, “Out of the city?” she echoed, “Caesar, is Rome… falling?”

Romulus said nothing, only gripping his spear and stepping forward to go deeper into the Temple. Augusta shivered, then started helping the other Vestals.

Romulus stepped through the Temple and came to the Central Brazier, where the Light of Rome was sputtering as Germania, Gaul, Alba, Iberia, and Celtica threw buckets of water onto it. The barbarian nations turned to Rome as he entered the room, and they quickly took up their weapons. “What have you done?” Romulus asked, staring at the dark brazier.

“Destroyed your Flame!” Celtica crowed, levelling her longbow, “Without its power, you are nothing!”

“You…” Rome started, his voice low, “You thought I kept the Flame  _ here!? _ ” Rome, despite everything that was happening to his nation, despite facing down his greatest enemies, doubled over and laughed. The barbarians stood in shocked silence as Romulus laughed at them, and Celtica growled as she fired an arrow. Still laughing, Romulus caught the arrow on his shield and managed to gasp, “You thought- Oh,  _ di immortales! _ -you thought I kept the Flame of Europa, the greatest source of my power, out in the open, in the middle of a public temple!? Pfft, hahahahahaha!!” Germania growled, and Romulus composed himself. “Ohh, oh, oh, I’m sorry, I just, haha!” he chuckled winding down, “No, you dolts! That’s not the Flame! That’s just an actual fire that I kept lit for symbolic purposes!”

Alba shifted, “Then where is it!?” he asked, his voice thin and nervous.

Romulus grinned as he levelled his spear, and his eyes glowed, “ **Oh,** ” he said, his voice reverberating with “ **You’ll see…** ” 

Germania and Gaul leapt at Romulus, hatchet and spear swung high, and Romulus raised his shield. As he caught the blows, and arrow came whizzing through the air to hit him in the chest, and he grunted as the armor dented with the impact, but did not break. Iberia swung at him with her short sword, but Romulus countered and stabbed at her scratching her abdomen. Alba bellowed a war cry as he swung his massive broadsword into Romulus, who gasped as the sheer force of impact against his chest armor made him stagger and fall to one knee. Romulus stared at the young Celt with amazement. Then he grinned savagely, showing the blood on his teeth, “You’re gonna go far, kid,” he said, “Watch over your brothers for me. It’d be a shame if they were to die young.”

Alba growled, “I don’t take orders from  _ you! _ ” he spat.

Romulus chuckled, “I like this one, Fiona,” he called to the Celtic archeress, “He’ll go far after you and I are gone!”

As Celtica nocked and arrow, Germania stepped forward. “Enough of this, Rome,” he said, his voice booming with authority, “You have committed grave sins. You have conquered lands beyond your realm and destroyed cultures to replace them with your own!”

Rome coughed up blood, then looked the barbarian king in the eye. “Then what would you have me do?” he asked, “Stand by while you Europeans lived in squalor, squatting in the mud together like pigs, when your potential was so much more? When at the expense of the few, I could raise up the fortunes of the many!?”

“That was no equality! It was a broken system of hierarchy!” Celtica sneered at him.

“And there will never  _ be  _ true equality!” Rome shouted at her, trying and failing to stagger to his feet, “Not unless you would have us frolick in our own shit, bending over backwards to please everyone! To make a civilization great, there must be sacrifices! Not everyone has an easy time! I know that more than anyone!”

“YOU STOLE OUR CHILDREN FROM US!!!” Celtica screeched, and the other barbarians circled Romulus, murmuring agreement.

Romulus scoffed. “The you would have me leave them in  _ your _ care!?” he asked, “Let’s see, little Albion was being bullied by his siblings to the point where he ran away, a problem _ you  _ never saw fit to deal with,  _ Celtica! _ ”

Alba flinched as if he’d been hit.

“And Lusitania and Hispania begged me to have them!” Rome went on, “Once they saw they were free from the work their mother had forced on them, how she had withheld food from them to teach them a lesson in humility!”

Iberia looked down guiltily.

“And let’s not forget how Gallia  _ clung to my toga _ after I promised to take him away from Gaul!” Rome screeched, “Crying and begging me to never let him see another Burning Man again!”

Gaul growled.

“Look at what you’ve ‘accomplished’, Folkert!” Romulus cried, finally standing and splaying his arms wide so that they could see the carnage around them, and from nowhere flames roared to life, consuming the Temple, “Look at all you’ve done! You would have me allow Gaul to keep slaughtering innocents in brutal fashions? You would have me stand by while children suffer? You would have me staunch the progress of humanity because you _don’t like me!?!_ Know this, barbarian scum… you would have me silenced, my memory forgotten, my cities destroyed, my temples ripped down, my roads torn up! Well, I say to you **NEVER! I AM THE LORD AND MASTER OF EUROPE! MY TALES WILL BE SUNG FOR CENTURIES! FUTURE NATIONS WILL QUARREL AND SQUABBLE OVER** ** _MY_** **LEGACY, NOT YOURS! YOU WILL BE MERE FOOTNOTES IN THE TEXTS OF HISTORY! I AM ROMULUS AUGUSTUS IULIUS MUCIUS SCAEVOLA CAESAR PATRICANUS DEUS, AND YOU ARE NAUGHT BUT** ** _BARBARIANS!!_** **_ROMA! INVICTA!!!_** ”

After chanting his nation’s sacred motto,  _ Unconquered Rome, _ Romulus let the power of the Flame flow through him, and he felt the power of his people. The people of Rome, his people, every great leader and general he’d ever had. The Gracchi Brothers. Julius Caesar. Augustus. Cincinnatus. Claudius. Tiberius. Trajan. Constantine. Aeneas. Scipio Africanus. Horatius. Romulus and Remus. All their power, skill, might, hope, and love of their country filled him with searing hot  _ power _ , and Romulus let it loose.

The explosion of the Temple of the Vestal Virgins was like a second sun, burning impossibly bright, and destroying anything that came too close. As quickly as it came, it vanished, and some wondered if it had ever been there are all. Those in the epicenter, Rome and the barbarian nations, knew it had been real, though. All the nations were badly burned, Alba’s arm had gone a horrid, peeling black, and the young Celt screamed as fire consumed his limb.

Rome knelt in the ash, and his charred prothstetic splintered apart, letting his shield fall limply to the ground. Despite the immense pain the old Roman must have been in, he found the strength to stand, as did Folkert Beilschimdt. Germania and Rome stared each other down, each holding their respective spears, and they charged at each other. They fought, hand to hand, spear to spear, neck and neck, and subconsciously all other battles ceased to watch the two nations fight. The pair found themselves in the Roman Forum, and Romulus growled as he redirected Folkert’s spear and managed to snap the shaft short with his foot, making Folkert stumble. Romulus kicked Folkert down, placing a foot on his chest, and raised his spear, ready to strike--!

An arrow thrummed through the fire and the flames, hitting Rome in the arm, where his armor had been chipped away by the battle. Romulus screamed and dropped his spear, holding his wounded forearm close to his chest, unable to pluck out the arrow without another hand. Celtica smiled tiredly, lowering her bow, and Germania seized the moment. With all the power of a charging wild boar, Folkert lurched upward, burying his spearhead in Rome’s heart.

Rome’s eyes widened as he went into shock. Folkert crawled away from him, the battle having drained his energy, and Rome staggered in the other direction, stumbling into the Forum. The citizens of Rome watched in horror as a river of red poured down their personification’s chest, and a woman wailed in despair. “W-was I really that bad…?” he asked in a heartbreakingly pitiful voice. Just then, Romulus could’ve sworn he heard a young boy singing, an old, soulful marching song called  _ The Light of Rome _ , and before he could dismiss it, he realized that he was surrounded by weeping, crying citizens, all singing that high, sorrowful hymn, and Rome looked around at them. To him, their voices sounded like the angels his son Clemens had gone on and on about, and as he watched, Rome seemed to rebuild itself before his very eyes. The Circus Maximus rose from the ground, chariots racing around it with the crowds cheering like mad. The Colosseum was restored, and Rome could hear the sound of the gladiators’ weapons clashing. The Septizodium flowed with water, and a triumph came through the streets. On the Rostra, politicians made wonderful promises they would never keep, the Forum was alive with shoppers, the barracks were filled with the sounds of cadence and drill sergeants shouting at apathetic cadets. Through the pain, Rome smiled weakly, and fell to his knees, then he fell onto the ground, making the spear punch clean through him, protruding from his back. The Romans screamed as he died, but he was not sad. He was not worried. He was not angry or happy or afraid. He knew the answer to his question. No, he was not bad. He was not good, but at least he was not bad. And that was good enough for an old Roman such as himself. Now, after so many centuries of conquering, fighting, and burning, Rome was glad to finally get some rest. Who knew? Maybe he would see Atlan again. Rome smiled, and closed his fiery red eyes. Somewhere, deep within, a candlelight flickered and swayed with the wind. Soon, the candle softly and gently burned down, snuffed by the wind, a thin trail of smoke wafting serenely through the air. The Light had been put out. Rome had fallen. And the old man called Romulus was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that! SO many chapters spent leading up to this very moment, fulfilled! Read, my lovely readers, read to your heart's content!
> 
> Then come back for more next week!


	49. You Killed My Father, Prepare to Die

The city that had once been Rome stood still as the old warrior passed on. He did not wake up, as Nations usually did. He was gone. The Europeans staggered through the broken streets, trying to fathom what they’d just accomplished.

“What have you done!?” a shrill voice asked, and the Europeans turned to see Britannia standing in the Via Appia, flanked by the other Sons of Rome, returned from their mission to safeguard the Vestal Virgins. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?” Britannia screeched again.

“Albion, my son,” Celtica sighed, lowering her bow, “You’re free now. It is time to come home.”

Britannia shook with rage. “My name is Britannia, and I  _ am _ home!” he shouted at her, drawing  _ Caliburn _ , “You killed my father! Prepare to die!” Britannia leapt at her, and as Celtica tried to raise her bow, numb with shock, she, Britannia, and Alba disappeared with loud pops.

“Where did they go?” Iberia asked, “What happened to them?”

“The empire has fallen,” Folkert gasped, still in tremendous pain from his battle with Rome, “This is no longer  _ their  _ land! They’re returning to their proper lands, and taking us with them!”

Iberia turned, her eyes wide with fear, and drew her knife as Hispania and Lusitania charged at her,  _ Conquistador  _ and  _ Colhona  _ in hand. Soon, they all disappeared as well.

“You insolent boy!” Gaul shouted at his son, who stood shaking in fear,  _ Danseur  _ threatening to fall from his grip. Gallia looked pale and sickly, then Aegyptus clapped him on the shoulder.

“Gallia, look at me,” the Egyptian said, and the Frenchman dared to look him in the eye. “You’re stronger than him,” Aegyptus told him, “You can beat him.” With that, Aegyptus seemed no longer able to stay, and he disappeared back to his land with a loud pop.

Gallia stared at his father, still shaking. Then, suddenly, as if someone had thrown a switch, Francis shook with rage, and his grip tightened on his blade. With a scream of desperation, he leapt at his tormentor, and they disappeared together.

“That just leaves you and me, barbarian scum,” Clemens said as he approached Germania’s crawling form. Clemens held  _ Missionis  _ over Folkert’s head, ready to strike a killing blow, but the Christian hesitated.

“What are you waiting for?” Folkert gasped, “Do it!”

“I… I…” Clemens stammered, still holding his staff, “I hate you! You killed my father! I should strike you down and kill you, like the barbarian dog that you are! But… but ‘Thou shalt not kill’... I don’t know what to do!” Clemens cursed as he withdrew his staff, trying to deliberate between his need for vengeance and his morals as a Christian.

Folkert seized the opportunity. “Allow me to assist you!” the Germanian said through gritted teeth, and the barbarian king raised his leg and kicked with all his might. With a cry of unimaginable pain, Clemens crumpled to the ground, his hip crushed and his leg bent at an unnatural angle. With the distraction complete, Folkert summoned his power and teleported to his homeland, and to safety. Clemens, meanwhile, was left on the broken streets of Rome, beside his father’s corpse, shaking and crying as pain lanced through his leg. 

“Oh, God,  _ why!? _ ” he screamed, thrashing about with the pain. As he got a hold of himself, Clemens breathed hard through gritted teeth. “I’ll never hesitate again, I swear it!” he swore to himself, “Next time, I’ll  _ kill the barbarians dead! _ ”

The present nations looked at Clement, who leaned heavily on his walking stick. He stared back at them. “This thing isn’t for show, you know,” he muttered, “That didn’t heal very well. I can’t put too much weight on it. I became the first crippled Nation.” Folkert shifted uncomfortably.

The scene changed to Iberia, who stood in a forest facing down her sons. Hispania and Lusitania looked  _ absolutely livid _ , with fire in their eyes. Wait… could it be?

Fire roared around the forest, and Iberia stared in amazement. “How…? The Flame of Europa? He gave it to  _ you!? _ ” she gasped in comprehension.

“He gave it to  _ all of us! _ ” Lusitania shouted at her, “So we could burn barbarians like  _ you! _ ”

“We have more power than you could ever dream of!” Hispania followed up, “You starved us! Kept us from greatness! No longer! We will burn you, and start a greater, better nation from your ash and rubble!”

“Two, in fact!” Lusitania supplied, and the two brothers were upon her. With fire coating their weapons, they slashed and hacked at Iberia, who was nearly defenseless with her little knife, and soon, the gentle but cruel barbarian was impaled by their sword and halberd.

“Pl-please…” she pleaded, but the boys were beyond listening.

“WE WILL HAVE OUR REVENGE!” they screamed together, and Flame erupted around them, burning Iberia to ashes. Soon, there was nothing left but the two boys, passed out in the forest from the massive power they’d just exerted.

The scene changed to Gaul. The barbarians and his son fought back and forth, Gallia managing to strike him several times, while also suffering some blows from the druid’s hatchet. Soon, they were left staring each other down, panting with exhaustion. “Such insolence Rome taught you!” Gaul growled, “But do not worry, my son, the gods will forgive you! All you must do is become one with the Burning Man! I will gather up some of the poor and sick, and we will set this right together! You must burn away your sins!”

Gallia’s eyes widened, his breath came in short gasps, and his stance wobbled. Then, he remembered why he was fighting, and steeled his nerves. “I won’t!” he shouted back, “You made my life a living Hell! Pater  _ saved _ me! From you and your horrific rituals! You will not take me again! I will not burn again!” Fire blazed in Francis’s dark blue eyes, and he made one final thrust with  _ Danseur _ . Straight through Gaul’s heart.  _ Danseur’s  _ blade caught fire as Gaul gasped in shock, and Francis looked him in the eye. “I swear to you, Vocorix,” he said, “You will be the last burning man I see.” Gaul screamed as the fire enveloped him, burning his body away, and Francis stumbled at the Flame of Europa dissipated, falling to the ground in exhaustion.

With the present nations, Britain clenched his fist. If he’d had the chance, he’d rip Gaul limb from limb for his treatment of Francis. The scene then changed to the final battle.

In the forests of the British Isles, Britannia and Celtica stared each other down, Alba nursing his burned arm on the sidelines. Celtica and her son fought viciously, bow against sword, and their battle made the trees groan. Soon, Celtica had emptied her quiver, and Britannia swung  _ Caliburn  _ down to cleave her weapon in two, knocking her down onto a boulder while he did so. “I don’t understand,” Celtica growled, “What did he do to make you so powerful? To make you forget? And where in the Hell did he put the Flame of Europa!?”

“The Flame?” Britannia asked, “You mean you still haven’t figured that out yet? Pater separated the Flame, he put it inside all of us. Hispania, Lusitania, Byzantium, Christianitatis, Aegyptus, Gallia, even me.” For emphasis, he made fire dance across his fingertips, “It’s bonded to us. It will never leave us. We are meant to be conquerors, empires in our own right! And you barbarians are naught but obstacles in the legacy he fought so hard to give to us!” Arthur raised  _ Caliburn  _ high above his head, ready to strike downward.

“Wait, Albion, don’t-!” Celtica pleaded, but it was too late. His rage consuming him,  _ Caliburn’s _ blade was set ablaze, and Arthur thrust downward with all his might, his eyes burning with power. Celtica cried out, but the blade pierced her heart, killing her instantly. The fire burned away her body, and all that was left was  _ Caliburn,  _ stuck into the boulder beneath her. The Sword in the Stone. “Now,” Arthur told it as he removed the blade, “You are  _ Excalibur. _ ”

Britannia turned to Alba. “Are you going to fight me?” he asked the Celt, and Alba took a shivering step backward, still holding his burnt arm.

“Yes,” Allistor told him, setting his jaw in determination, “Not now, but yes.” With that, the Scot turned and fled through the forest. 

When he reached the hut that was the home of the Celts, he found Cymru, Eire, and a young baby girl in swaddling clothes. Sadly, he simply shook his head. Cymru’s eyes widened in shock, and he stared down at the girl in his arms. “Erin never knew her…” he breathed.

Eire simply walked aimlessly outside the hut, numb from the pain. Soon, he happened upon their mother’s alcohol stash, and the nations watched as the young Irishman stared at the unrefined spirit. Tentatively, he took a drink. Then he took another. And another. Soon, he downed a whole bottle, and fell unconscious in the mud.

The barbarians were dead.

The present nations stood in shock. Erin went to her twin and hugged him tight. “Oh, Patrick, if only you’d  _ told me _ ,” she cried, and Patrick gently nudged her off.

“It wasn’t a problem at first,” he said resignedly, “It just helped the pain, that was all. Actually, if I drank enough, I could still see her face.”

“Oh, Eire,” Fiona sighed, hugging her son, “You shouldn’t have done that on my behalf.”

Ireland sighed, “I know… It’s just, after a few decades, I realized I couldn’t stop. I had a drink everywhere, the house, the car, Parliament, Hell, even America’s place. Kentucky even found it once.”

“Kentucky  _ what!? _ ” Alfred shrieked.

“Yeah, sorry,” Ireland said sheepishly, “That might’ve been my fault. The kid was good at making bourbon.”

Alfred’s eye twitched. “He’s sixteen,” he muttered.

“He’s two hundred and thirty nine,” Alexander reminded him gently.

“He’s still sixteen,” Alfred reiterated.

“Shh,” Alexander responded, “Ireland’s having a moment, stop ruining it!” Alfred huffed, but remained silent.

Arthur approached his brother stiffly. “Patrick, I’ve… had similar troubles with the drink. I can point you in the direction of help, if you’d like.”

Patrick stared at him. Then, the Irishman smiled. “I think I’ve already got all the help I need.” Arthur nodded, smiling softly, and the images dissolved around them, putting them back in the conference room.

Surprisingly, a giant turkey dinner sat on the table, complete with mashed potatoes, matzo ball soup, and mountains of bread rolls. “Is it Thanksgiving?” Alexander asked, “I must’ve lost track of the time.”

“And I just realized we haven’t eaten in like, a  _ year! _ ” Alfred exclaimed, “Let’s dig in!”

“Wait, we need a blessing!” Clement protested, and the Nations groaned.

“Fine, go ahead,” Alfred muttered, taking his seat again.

Clement stood at the head of the table, and all the assembled nations and states took their seats. “Dear Lord,” he began, “We thank You for this bountiful meal, and those were are blessed enough to share it with. We thank You for friendship and fellowship, especially how you have helped us understand each other in these past days. We thank You for our lives, long and prosperous, and we eternally thank You for this blessing of immortality You have bestowed on us.”

“Get on with it!” Scotland protested, “I want to eat before Christmas!”

Clement grumbled something under his breath that definitely was  _ not  _ a prayer, and continued. “Above all Lord, we thank You for the stories we have told, and all those we have yet to witness. We thank You for this glorious creation that is the world, and all that live on it, whether they be Christian, Jew, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, or Atheist, for we are all the Children of God. For this beautiful circle that is the Earth, we thank Thee O Lord. Amen.”

“Amen!” came a resounding chorus from the other Christian nations.

“L'Chaim!” Israel cheered, throwing back a glass of wine like it was nothing.

Ireland reached for his flask, then, thinking better of it, let it be. Erin smiled at him proudly.

“Restraint’s all well and good,” Denmark said, “But it’s a party! Let’s go wild!” Somehow, the Dane had procured himself a flagon of beer, from only God knows where, and Prussia, and America had joined him. 

Ireland smiled. “Maybe later,” he said calmly, “I’m not giving up drinking. It’s part o’me culture. Just not having it every second of every day no more.”

“And that’s all we ask of you,” Erin said happily, “Now pass the gravy.”

America laughed as he partied with the rest of the Awesome Trio, when he noticed a dark-skinned woman on the edges of the crowd, shrouded in mist. There were feathers in her black hair, and her copper skin was adorned with a dress of animal pelts. She smiled at him, then he blinked and she was gone. “Mom…” he said sadly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!


	50. Prodigal Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byzantium receives word of Rome's fall.

After their hearty Thanksgiving meal, the nations met in the conference room the next day to embark upon their next memory. For some strange reason, Alfred looked despondent, and no one, not even Alexander or Matthew could figure out why. Alfred sighed with displeasure as he absentmindedly poked at a pencil on his desk, looking suitably depressed, but as no one knew what was bothering him, all they could do was move on to the next memory. It is worth mentioning, however, that both Matthew and Alexander sat next to their brother at the table.

At the head of the table, Germany stood to flip the next page of the book, looking to the assembled Nations for their approval. After some nods and an irritated shooing motion from England, Ludwig flipped the page.

The Nations found themselves in the legendary city of Constantinople. The Golden Gate stood proud and tall at the mouth of the Theodosian Walls, spectators roared and cheered from the stands of the Hippodrome, and the iconic Hagia Sophia rose above the city, elevated by a hill. Watching over his pride and joy, Basilius Constantinus Patricanus leaned on a stone rampart, smiling at the splendor of the city. Byzantium looked older now, more mature, and the young man had actually started to grow some stubble for a beard. He wore a lavender purple cape and the garb of a wealthy Byzantine, and on his head he wore a crown of laurels, the symbol of victory. “This is a sight to rival even Roma itself,” Basilius sighed lovingly, “How blessed I am to be the personification of this place.”

“Lord Basilius!” a Byzantine guard cried, running up behind him, “A rider comes from Alexandria! He wishes to speak with you, he says it is urgent!”

“Alexandria?” Basilius asked in astonishment, “How far has this poor man ridden? Summon my uncles, and ready a message to my father. I fear he bears grave tidings to have ridden so far so fast.”

“That’s just it, Lord,” the guard said, and the poor man sounded on the verge of tears, “The rider is Lord Gupta of Aegyptus. He says Roma has been destroyed, and your father, Caesar Romulus, has been killed!”

Basilius stared at him, and the Nations watched as Byzantium raced down the walls toward the Golden Gate. “Gupta!” he cried, leaping from the walls and landing beside the younger man, “What has happened!?”

The Egyptian sighed as he saw his brother, and the Nations noticed how exhausted he looked. He had dark bags under his eyes, and he looked about ready to collapse. _Dhakira_ hung from his hip, and he looked like he’d had to fight bandits on his way up the Levantine coast. “Brother,” he sighed, “I’m so sorry. There was nothing I could do.”

“Gupta, what has happened?” Byzantium asked again, more fervent this time, “They tell me Pater is dead, but that can’t be true, Pater is the mightiest warrior in history, he cannot be killed!”

“It-it’s true, Basilius,” Gupta said, “He died to that barbarian, Folkert Beilschmidt. The barbarians tricked him and killed him while he was wounded and defenseless. Like _cowards!_ I’m sorry brother, I was… too slow. It’s true. Pater is dead.”

Byzantium shivered, and staggered away from his brother, going into shock. The young empire started to hyperventilate as he realized how his world, once so perfect and serene, had been pulled out from under him. His father was dead. His _father_ was _dead._ His father, the mighty Roman Empire, was _dead._ Gone. Not coming back. “Oh God,” Basilius whispered, “Oh God…”

The Byzantines watched silently as their personification grieved, solemn and respectful. Gupta knelt to comfort his brother, and the Nations watched as as the Last Roman curled up and cried.

“I’ll kill them…” Basilius said, his voice radiating nothing short of pure pain and anguish, “I will round them all up and kill them! Starting with the wretch named _Folkert Beilschmidt!_ ” Byzantium’s voice reverberated through the streets, and bells tolled from the Hagia Sophia. It was almost as if Constantinople itself was witness to Basilius’s oath.

The scene shimmered away, then reilluminated to show a massive army on the march. They flew the flags of the Eastern Roman Empire, marching along in legion formation, and at the head of this mighty host were two figures on horseback. One was a tall, bearded man in the regal garb of a Roman Emperor, unmistakably one of Byzantium’s greatest leaders: Justinian the Great. Beside him, wearing a red cloak of war and dressed in full combat armor, with his _spatha_ and shield hooked to his saddle, was Basilius Constantinus Patricanus. The Byzantine Army was on the march, and the Nations turned to see that they had reached the once mighty gates of Rome.

Byzantium nodded to his emperor, then spurred his horse and galloped ahead of the army. He faced minimal resistance as he charged up to the Seven Hills, and as he entered the ruined gates, he reared his horse in the Via Appia and shouted “ROME! YOUR PRODIGAL SON HAS RETURNED!!”

Tentatively, Romans came out from their homes and hiding places, and upon seeing a man on horseback in Roman battle armor, cheered with joy. The citizens of this subjugated city were finally being liberated from their barbarian oppressors, and the Romans crowded around him, giving praises to Heaven and thanking Basilius for coming to their rescue. That day, a triumphal procession was held in Rome for the Emperor Justinian and his army, a congratulatory festival for the heroes who’d come from the East. After the celebration, Byzantium went to the Roman Forum, and found what he was looking for.

Laying in the Forum, the skeletal remains of a Roman warrior lay unburied, exposed on the cobbles. A spear protruded from his back, and a tattered red cape covered his frame. These were the remains of Romulus Iulius Patricanus, the Roman Empire. And none had even given him the proper rights. “I can’t lift him,” a voice said, and Byzantium turned to find his younger brother, Clemens, “Otherwise I would have buried him a long time ago.” The Christian was sitting on a ruined stone bench, his leg bent at a horrible angle. A young boy with a pouty attitude stood by his side, and had probably helped Clemens through the street. With a shock, Antonio realized it was a younger Romano.

“Hello, brother,” Byzantium said, “What happened here?”

“The barbarian, Germania,” Clemens said, his voice filled with venom, “He stabbed Pater through the heart. The empire in the West was too weak and fractured to revive him. All our brothers returned to their lands, and I’ve received confirmation that all the others conspirators in Pater’s death have been killed. They would return, except now they all have nations to attend to.”

“I understand,” Basilius said, staring back at their father’s body, “They must think of their people before themselves. Pater taught us that way.”

“Western Europe has been decimated,” Clemens sighed, “I am doing everything within the power of the Church to keep it together, but there is only so much I can do. The barbarians are ripping up the old roads, and all the cities have been occupied. Priests are too afraid to practice for fear of the brutes. And, there is not much I can do with… _this_.” He waved contemptuously to his leg.

“I came here to fix this,” Byzantium said, “And fix it I shall. Find one of my men and have them give Pater the old rites. Not our Christian ones.”

Clemens spluttered with indignance. “Why not a Christian burial!?” he asked, shocked.

Basilius raised an eyebrow. “Do you think Pater ever really believed us? No, I think he was still a Pagan at heart. The least we can do is do for him as he would have wanted.”

Clemens shifted, but eventually sighed. “I suppose you’re right,” he said resignedly, “But this is the last time I perform a Pagan ceremony! It is unbecoming of the Personification of Christianity!”

Byzantium hummed noncommittally. Then, he abruptly took the spear from their father’s body and mounted his horse. “Where do you think _you’re_ going?” Clemens questioned, staring up at his brother from his bench.

“I’m going to Germania,” Byzantium said gravely, wheeling his horse around, “And I shall return with Folkert Beilschmidt's head on a pike.” With that, the Last Roman galloped away, leaving his brother to bury their father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit when did we reach 50 fucking chapters!?


	51. Sins of the Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basilius rides to Germania to take revenge, and leaves a changed man.

The nations watched as Byzantium rode alone through the forests of Germania. His horse’s hooves clattered against ruined roads, pounding the soft dirt, until the young empire came across a barbarian encampment. There were two guards standing at the gate, leaning lazily on their spears. With Rome gone, whom had they to fear? Basilius drew his sword. 

As he galloped through the gates, he swung  _ Nomimotita  _ in two mighty arcs, slashing open the guards’ chests in a viper-like movement. As he charged the camp, a ram’s horn was blown, and the barbarians rallied to defend themselves. Basilius caught an arrow on his shield, circling his horse around as he swung down with his longer sword. The extra reach kept the barbarians at bay, and the speed of the horse meant he could corral into a group and tighten the proverbial noose. Soon, though, the barbarians became wise to his plan, and they pulled out a net to trip the horse. Saving the righteous animal, Basilius reared his horse to a stop, then leapt off its back with ease. Slapping it, he spurred the horse into a frightened gallop, barreling away from the camp. Now, the Byzantine stood alone with his hourglass shield and cavalry sword, against a camp full of barbarians. Basilius’s lavender eyes glowed, and in a voice that reverberated with power, he said “ **Βασιλεὺς Βασιλέων, Βασιλεύων Βασιλευόντων!** ” He stabbed his blade into the ground, and a massive wave of flame erupted from the impact, incinerating the barbarians. 

Many recognized his motto, “ _ King of Kings, Ruling Over Rulers, _ ” and the power it gave him. There was something peculiar about the relationship between a nation and their motto; it wasn’t magic, but it did create a massive surge of power. It was like calling on a well of nationalism, concentrated in one phrase; it didn’t last long, but it gave an invaluable boost in battle. It was a power that every nation, state, and even micronation possessed, it drew on the power of the spirit of nationalism, the love of one’s country, and could create illusions, or ghosts, of famous people or things from that nation’s past to assist them in battle. Stronger nations could summon entire armies, some weaker ones could maybe summon a war hero or a great leader. However, the bigger the summon, or the longer the summon, the greater the toll it takes on the user. This summoning was known as Burnout, due to the after effects. In Byzantium’s case, he was an immensely strong empire at the height of his power, on top of the fact that the Flame of Europa was coursing through his veins, which made the short burst of power enormously effective. 

After that one Burnout, most of the barbarians warriors in the camp were dead, totally incinerated; naught but ash. Byzantium drew his blade out of the ground, then turned to the survivors. In a shivering, ragged circle, the Germanic Children stared at Byzantium with fear, in front of a scorched tent that must have held his quarry. Then Hungary grabbed a pan and charged the empire, screaming bloody murder.

Perhaps surprised by the little girl running at him with a frying pan, Byzantium took a step back, forgetting he had battle armor on, and stumbled as Hungary slammed the pan into his chest. The clang rang out clear, like a bell, and Basilius looked down at her and blinked several times. “You’re brave,” he murmured eventually, his voice quiet and broken, “That’s good. My father was brave, just like you are. But he’s dead now.  _ Your  _ father killed him!” Basilius yanked the pan out of her hands and sent in spinning into the forest, “Bravery will only get you so far, girl!” Basilius placed a devastating kick right into Elizabeta’s stomach, and the girl crumpled to the ground, groaning in pain.

“Elizabeta!” Little Roderich cried, running to her, “No, no, stay with me! Come on, we’ll get you out of here!” Roderich pulled Elizabeta up by her arm, desperately trying to drag her away from Byzantium.

“Oh, yes, go on, run away,” Basilius sneered derisively, “Keep running away and that’s all you’ll ever be good for!” Roderich flinched, but pulled Elizabeta to safety.

“YAAAAAH!!” Little Gilbert cried, jumping out of a tree with a sword much too big for him. Basilius caught the blade with his fingertips, not even turning his head. The Byzantine Empire flicked Little Prussia away contemptuously, snapping the blade over his knee with ease. 

“Do yourself a favor, kid,” he called to where the white-clad child was struggling to stand, “Don’t be a hero or a knight for some misguided vision of glory. It’s not as great as you’d think, trust me.” Basilius stepped toward the tent, flicking his gaze to where a young Switzerland aimed a bow at him, keeping himself between the empire and baby Lichtenstein. “Are you going to fight me, boy?” Basilius asked the little nation. Switzerland shivered, then let his bow go slack. “I thought so,” Basilius muttered, turning back to the tent. He stepped inside.

Folkert Beilschmidt was in a pitiful condition. He couldn’t stand, his limbs were burned from his battle with Rome, the skin a charred and peeling black. His blonde hair was dirty and messy, and from where he sat in his wicker chair he only flicked his emerald green eyes to look at Byzantium. “So…” he said, his voice strained and raspy, “The prodigal son returns…”

Basilius narrowed his eyes. “Save your breath. Looks like you need it,” he muttered, “I’ve come for one purpose and one purpose only: revenge.”

Germania slowly cocked an eyebrow. “Really?” he asked, “And why is that?”

“You killed my father, you son of a bitch!” Basilius growled, holding his sword underneath the barbarian king’s chin.

To his surprise, Folkert only chuckled weakly. “He was dying anyway,” he laughed, “He told me himself. What I did, I gave him the death he wanted. On the battlefield.” 

Byzantium growled, “You  _ scum! _ Don’t you  _ dare  _ speak as if you knew my father’s wishes! He wanted a peaceful life! A better life for himself and us, his  _ sons! _ And you went and screwed that all up! You threw Europe into disarray and panic, and now we’re left to pick up the pieces! And you say you’re pleased that you’ve tossed us into this, this… dark age!?”

Folkert looked Basilius in the eye. “He was a tyrant, boy,” he spat, “A ruthless dictator with no emotions for anyone or anything! He told me himself that he burned his only love alive, along with their entire civilization! He sacrificed love for power! He built a family of  _ LIES! _ ”

“LIAR!” Basilius shouted, “HE LOVED US! He loved each and every one of us, even though all of us were different! Even though we were all damaged! He made us a  _ family! _ ”

“A family…?” Folkert mused, his voice dangerously quiet, “You think  _ that _ a family? I tell you what, boy. I know I’ll die today, whether it be by your hand or by nature’s. So with my dying breath, let the gods hear me and curse you! You call yourself a part of a family? You call yourself an empire? You call yourself a Rome’s Heir? Then hear me, Basilius Constantinus Patricanus, and be afraid! You will live for a thousand years, perhaps even forever, but everything you know and love will crumble away. You will lose your empire bit by bit, piece by piece, until you have nothing but a single city, and even that shall be destroyed! Your precious ‘family’ will betray you at every turn, making you cold and scorned! No one will acknowledge you as Rome’s heir! They will turn to anyone but you! Your brothers, Hell, one of  _ my _ sons, or even someone entirely unrelated! Those that you love will all  _ die _ , and you will be powerless to stop it! You will die a bitter, hateful old man with nothing to live for except SPITE! That is my last breath, Basilius Constantinus Patricanus!  _ THAT _ , is my CURSE FOR BYZANTIUM!!” 

Folkert began to laugh, a cruel, evil, crazed, triumphant laugh, and Byzantium screamed as he drove his sword through the barbarian king’s throat. The laughter died slowly and pitifully, and Basilius kept stabbing at the body, again and again, screaming and crying, “YOU’RE WRONG! YOU’RE WRONG! YOU’RE  _ WRONG! _ ” Folkert’s eyes stared away into nothingness, a blank look of triumph on his face. 

Basilius slowly drew his sword from the king’s body, when he heard the cry of an infant. Looking around wildly, he found a small wooden crib, and in it lay a babe with blonde hair and blue eyes, in black swaddling clothes. Another barbarian son. Consumed by rage, Basilius raised his sword over the crib, ready to strike, but hesitated. He stared down at the cooing, innocent baby, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He would not sink so low. Basilius sheathed his sword, then gently picked the babe up. He carried it outside, where he found the rest of the Germanics. “You’re father is dead,” he told them blandly, “Take the babe to Clemens Vargas Patricanus in Rome. He will take care of you. Tell him I sent you.”

“Wh-where…” Little Gilbert gasped, struggling to his feet, “Where are  _ you _ going?”

Basilius laid the baby in Gilbert’s arms, then stood. “I’m going home,” he said tiredly, then he started looking for his horse. As he rode back east, he tried to ignore the hot stone in his gut. Folkert had just been delusional in his final moments, there was no way that that curse was legitimate. His family would never abandon him… would they?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EPIC FORESHADOWING
> 
> Also you have no Goddamn idea how long it took to find out what the hell the Byzantine Empire's motto was.


	52. Dragonship

The Romance nations shifted uncomfortably as the scene shimmered. They’d never really thought about their treatment of Byzantium. To them, he seemed a relic of the past, just as much an Ancient as Rome or Carthage or Troy. He was simply… in the background. Far to the east while they scrounged around Europe, trying to survive. In the Dark Ages, it was kill or be killed, and Byzantium was simply never a part of that. Rome himself glanced at his sons, and with a start, realized that Basil was standing far removed from the others, even standing next to Turkey. Was it not Turkey who killed him? What had happened that he preferred his enemies to his family? 

Italy looked the most distressed out of all of them. He was tapping his finger restlessly against his other arm, looking fervently between Germany and Byzantium and biting his lip, as if  _ he _ was the one with secrets to hide. But that was impossible… what did innocent, hapless little Italy have to hide?

The scene reilluminated to a cold, wintry sea, where whitecaps crested o'er the waves and the wind howled across the sky. Dark clouds covered the sun, and a fierce storm raged from on high. In this frigid, frozen hellscape, the nations began to hear something peculiar: singing. It was faint, barely carrying across the wind, but it was definitely there. There were no words, just a droning, melodic chant, nothing more than a simple tune to sail to. With a crash of sea foam, a massive ship broke through a wave, and the British Isles shivered. The ship was massive, long and thin, fashioned from sturdy wood and rigged with a square sail. At the bow, a carved figurehead of a dragon reared its head, its mouth open in a snarl as wooden fire curled from its lips. It glided over the waves live nothing, rocking this way and that with the pull of the ocean, but the sailors did not seem to mind. They were all tall, burly men, with blonde hair and blue eyes, and long braided beards that came down to their chests. They had conical metal helmets and circular buckler shields, and they carried battle axes and swords at their hips. A few had armor, but many went without, showing off their ridiculously large muscles as they manned the oars and propelled the ship forward. 

Each man was singing that strange, wordless song, a tune that seemed to ebb and flow with the waves, and at the helm stood an impossibly tall, impossibly buff blonde man in a sheepskin tunic. Even though the conditions were less than desirable for any sailor, this man grinned fiercely at the storm, laughing and singing along with his crew as his ship crashed along the ocean. There was only one person this man could possibly have been, only one sailor so skilled to be so nonchalant in such horrific conditions: Erak Ingenson, the Personification of the Vikingers. And that meant that this ship was a dragonship, and that these men were vikingers. Apparently, raiding season was upon them.

As the ship sailed on, the storm began to clear, a landmass rose in the distance. It was unmistakably the coast of northern Scotland, and the vikingers howled with delight. The Viking Age had begun.

The nations watched as the ship hit the shingle beach, and the vikingers jumped out and pulled the ship ashore with the machine-like ability that implied they were well practiced. As they gathered their weaponry, a young Scotland appeared on the beach, eyeing them warily. “ _ Halo? _ Who’s down there?” he called, approaching them apprehensively. It didn’t take a genius to figure that these men were dangerous.

Erak smiled a huge, wolfish smile, and he brought out a massive battle axe from behind his back. “You’re Pictland, eh? I’m really sorry about this, you seem a nice enough lad!” he said apologetically, “But really, we’re just going viking!” With that, Allistor barely had time to cry out as Nordic steel slashed through his shoulder. 

Allistor screamed and fell to the ground, clutching his bleeding shoulder, and the vikingers stormed the beach, charging up the bluffs and into the village beyond, pillaging it for all it was worth. Erak laughed heartily as he stepped over Allistor in one stride, and followed his men, leaving the Celtic warrior behind as if he was nothing.

In the present, Scotland rubbed his shoulder in remembrance as Skandia smiled sheepishly. Soon, the scene shifted to images of the vikingers’ exploits, and the nations watched as it showed Erak taking Europe by storm, his dragonships raiding the coasts relentlessly and without mercy.

In Ireland, Erak and his men raided and burned a monastery, and stole all the precious reliquaries and holy items. Patrick tried to stop them, but even in his hayday, he was no match for the unstoppable vikingers. Patrick slammed his fist into Erak’s sheepskin vest, but jumped back as it felt like he’d punched a stone wall. Erak looked at his chest, then at the Irishman, then laughed. “You’ve got spunk kid! I like you!” he said happily, “I think I’ll keep you around!” Erak charged him, hitting him the the flat of his axe blade, and knocking him out cold in one blow. 

“Think you were a little too rough, captain?” one of his men asked, looking at the unconscious Irishman.

“Bah, he’ll be fine!” Erak protested, waving his massive hand through the air in a dismissive gesture, “Put some manacles on ‘im! He’ll make a damn fine slave, the same with the rest o’ these folks! They’ll make fine workers, wouldn’t you agree, Thorgest?” Erak turned to a different Vikinger captain, and older man who smiled as he came over to them.

“Oh, yes, hardy people, these Irish folk,” he said, “I’m thinking of settling a city here. A retirement plan, if you’d call it that. We could use it as a springboard for more raids in the future.”

Erak nodded sagely, “Good plan, I like it,” he said, “But what are you thinking about calling it?”

Thorgest tapped his chin thoughtfully, “I was thinking…  _ Dublin _ .”

Erak tilted his head thoughtfully. “Nah,” he decided, “That sounds stupid.”

Thorgest laughed, “Suit yourself, Erak, but Dublin it is!”

Erak harrumphed as the crews around him cheered, and the scene changed. Erak was in the forests of England, and he roared with delight as Arthur hit the dirt, conquered by the vikinger’s axe.

Arthur struggled to stand, then gasped as he failed, staring down at the axe wound in his chest that had broken through his armor like hot butter. “For a Son of Rome to be conquered by a mere barbarian…” he muttered through bloody teeth, “How shameful!”

“Oh come now, I’m not sure who this Rome fella is, but I’m sure he’d be proud of ya fer tryin’ yer best!” Erak laughed, butchering the English language as he crouched next to the fallen king, “Now, about that silver…”

“You want silver?” Arthur asked, “Then go to Francia! The damn frog is sitting on so much he could melt it down for scrap! Just leave me alone!”

Erak thought for a moment. “Why not both?” he asked, and he laughed at his own genius as Arthur groaned. The scene shimmered away, replaced by an image of Paris burning. 

Francis ran around wildly, trying to save his capital, but stopped as he felt a cold chill go up his spine. He turned, and sure enough, Erak Ingenson loomed over him. “I can do this all day, boy,” the vikinger said menacingly, his axe resting on his shoulder, “All I want is a tad bit of your silver!”

Francis shivered, then looked at the carnage that surrounded him. Priests were being killed at their altars, Pagan sacrifices were being made in the presence of the Crucifix, buildings were burning down, and everywhere raiders were slaughtering his people. Paris was being sacked. “Fine!” he spat, “Have your damned silver! Just make this stop!”

Erak smiled widely, then held up his axe, and gradually his men stopped the raid. “See, now was that so hard?” the vikinger asked the younger nation. As Francia stewed in his anger, the scene shimmered away to a far more peaceful vision. 

Erak glided along the rivers of Central Europe, no longer in a dragonship of war, but in a simple trading vessel laden with stolen Celtic and Francish goods and valuables. As his trading ship crossed the Black Sea, a trader with him whistled in appreciation as the Hagia Sohpia cam into view, along with the great city of Constantinople.

“Odin’s Beard!” the trader said, “How many people do you think live there?”

“A lot,” Erak answered, grinning that same, wolfish smile, “And I’ll bet you sixty reels of silver and my left nut that they’re all filthy stinking  _ rich! _ ”

The trader laughed, saying, “I’m holding you to that!”

Their ship glided into port, and Erak jumped ashore before they were even finished docking. “So, who’s in charge of this place, eh?” he asked a local harbormaster, “I’m dying to meet him!”

The harbormaster pointed up at the Hagia Sophia, saying, “The lord Basil Patricanus lives in the great church, but he hasn’t come out of there since his father died. Too heartbroken to come out, the people say.”

“When did the poor bastard’s father die?” Erak asked, and the harbormaster got a strange look on his face.

“I… I don’t remember,” he admitted, “But it was a long, long time ago.”

“Well, that’s too long to be shut inside some stuffy old church!” Erak insisted, marching through the streets of Constantinople, “I’m gonna go see him!” As much as the people of Byzantium tried to stop him, Erak was like a very loud, very boisterous truck; totally unstoppable once he had a goal. Soon, he was marching up the steps of the Hagia Sophia, and in one fluid motion, he kicked open the massive gilded doors. At the altar, Basil Patricanus looked up with such sadness in his eyes that all the nations were hit with a wave of guilt, but Basil seemed to compose himself.

“Who are you?” the Byzantine personification asked warily.

Erak crossed his arms with an air of self-importance, saying in a deep, booming voice “I’m Erak Ingenson! I just got here twenty minutes ago! I have silver, you have goods, and my left nut is on the line, so! You and I are going to barter!”

Then, after so many years of mourning after the death of his father, and the dark prophecy hanging over his head, the deeply saddened Basil looked Erak up and down, from his sheepskin vest to his ridiculously proportioned body, took into account his first words to him, and despite all the sadness that had been welling up in him, burst out laughing.


	53. Silent Night - A Redemption Christmas Special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief break from the story to wish you all a Merry Christmas!

War is a horrid thing. The constant sounds of cannons can wear down one’s mind to nothing, the intense savagery of battle can break one’s psyche. Sadly, this world has seen much war. The Trojan War. The Peloponnesian War. The Macedonian Conquest. The Roman Conquest. The Punic Wars. From the riders of Gengis Khan to the armies of General Lee, William the Conqueror to Joan of Arc, Adolf Hitler to Napoleon Bonaparte, the German Blitz to Sherman’s March to the Sea. Throughout human history, conflict, war, plague, and disease have ravaged the planet. It is a hopeless, desolate situation, and yet you still have hope. For every atrocity, there is a miracle, for every war a time of peace, for every regression an age of prosperity. It is a remarkable thing, the tenacity of humanity. But more impressive, perhaps, is when that tenacity, even in the darkest and most desolate of times, shines through, as a beacon of hope:

December 24th, 1870. The Franco-Prussian war rages on between the French Republic and the newly formed German Empire, otherwise known as the Second Reich. In despite of the high holiday, battle rages along the border between the two great powers. Francis Bonnefoy shivered as the bullets and howitzers flew around him, making craters in the ground as his soldiers huddled behind their lines. On the other side of the field, Gilbert Beilschmidt shivered as well, pulling his spiked helmet tight over his head as the French returned fire. They were fighting over the land of Alsace-Lorraine, a land that had been forever disputed between them, but now the conflict had become more brutal than ever. Neither of them knew that just forty four short years later, the horrors they were experiencing now would pale in comparison to what they would live through then. 

But it was Christmas Eve, and now the two nations wanted to do anything but fight. Francis thought of the cool glass of wine he could be having right now, sitting beneath the glow of Notre Dame, dressed up all fancily for the Yuletide festival. He thought of the priests that were delivering their most important sermons of the year, the people milling about trying to gather the presents needed to appease their relatives, and most importantly, the families gathering from Normandy to Picardie to celebrate Christmas together. He imagined something he could never have, a peaceful Christmas Eve, spent with his family. He imagined lounging on a couch, regaling his children with tales of his youth, Matthieu and Michelle humoring him with polite interest. Sighing, he even wished he could see Alfred for Christmas, and, damn it all, he wanted to see that bastard Arthur tonight. Most of all, he didn’t want to be here, fighting against Prussia again.

Across the field, Gilbert thought of his perfect Christmas. He’d only just been able to bring his brother back, and he was still young and inexperienced. As such, until Ho--  _ Germany _ could stand on his own two feet, it was up to Prussia to handle matters of war. This was neither the first nor the last time he would fight France, but  _ verdammt _ , it was Christmas! He should be laughing while Ludwig paced in the living room, impatiently waiting to go in to the central room an open his presents. Better yet, he should get on a ship to Halifax, and spend the holiday with his husband. He imagined the peaceful, cool Canadian night, the shadows of the maple trees drifting across the forest floor as they exchanged their gifts. But it was not to be tonight. Tonight, he had to fight France, for no reason at all beyond some stupid strip of land.

The battle carried on nonetheless, Prussians and Frenchmen killing each other faster than any war so far had ever seen. Francis watched as his men ran out from cover, only to be blown apart by a Prussian howitzer. Gilbert shivered as a Prussian took aim with a rifle, only to have his eye torn out by a French sniper. Blood seeded the field, and men were dying left and right. Francis could stand it no longer!

Not quite realizing what he was doing, he strode out into enemy fire, threw down his gun, and began to sing.

 

_ Minuit, chretiens, c'est l'heure solennelle, _

_ Ou l'Homme Dieu descendit jusqu'a nous… _

 

Confused, the firing stopped slowly, fading into pockets of skirmishing as Francis sang. Frenchmen and Prussians alike stared at him with utter incomprehension, probably wondering,  _ Is he crazy? _ Still, none pulled the trigger.

 

_ Pour effacer, la tache originelle, _

_ Et de Son Pere arreter le courroux... _

_ Le monde entier, tressaille d'esperance! _

_ En cette nuit, qui lui donne un Sauveur! _

_ Peuple a genoux! Attends ta delivrance! _

_ Noel! Noel! Voici le Redempteur! _

_ Noel! Noel! Voici le Redempteur... _

 

_ Le Redempteur, A brise toute entrave; _

_ La terre est libre et le ciel est ouvert! _

_ Il voit un Frere, ou n'etait qu'un esclave; _

_ L'amour unit, ceux qu'enchainait le fer... _

_ Qui Lui dira notre reconnaissance? _

_ C'est pour nous tous qu'Il nait, Qu'Il souffre et meurt, _

_ Peuple debout! Chante ta delivrance! _

_ Noel! Noel! Chantons le Redempteur! _

_ Noel! No~el!  _

_ Chantons le Redempteur… _

 

As Francis finished  _ Cantique de Noel _ , he stared at the Prussian lines, waiting. No one fired. The Prussians shifted, looking at each other nervously, surely it must be some sort of French trap? But soon, a spiked helmet poked out from behind the lines, and Francis gasped as he recognized the red eyes of Gilbert Beilschmidt.

 

_ Vom Himmel hoch, da komm ich her! _

_ Ich bring' euch gute neue Mär, _

_ Der guten Mär bring ich so viel, _

_ Davon ich sing und sagen will! _

 

_ Euch ist ein Kindlein heut' geborn! _

_ Von einer Jungfrau auserkorn, _

_ Ein Kindelein, so zart und fein, _

_ Das soll eu'r Freud und Wonne sein! _

 

_ Es ist der Herr Christ, unser Gott! _

_ Der will euch führn aus aller Not... _

_ Er will eu'r Heiland selber sein, _

_ Von allen Sünden machen rein! _

 

As Gilbert finished his low, heartfelt rendition of  _ Vom Himmel Hoch, da Komm ich Her _ , Francis clapped appreciatively, as if he’d just watched a fantastic opera. Soon, more clapping joined him, from the French side, who’d laid down their guns and were now coming out from behind their lines, applauding after Gilbert’s solo.

Then, the Prussians stepped out from their lines, also applauding, some even had tears in their eyes. Amazingly, the enemies approached one another, not with guns and bayonets, but with handshakes and hugs. Francis and Gilbert hugged one another, standing in the snow, and laughed together as they realized what they’d just done.

“ _ Joyeux Noel, _ Gilbert,” Francis laughed.

“ _ Fröhliche Weihnachten _ , Francis,” Gilbert returned, then they looked around them as their troops began to sing together, a song that would only become more famous with time as a bringer of peace.  _ Stille Nacht. Douce Nuit. Silent Night. _

But even this is not where these triumphs of humanity end. Just a few short decades later, a similar, and more famous event would take place, on the battlefields of one of the most horrifying wars this world has ever seen: the Great War, the War to End All Wars, or, more simply, World War I.

Christmas Eve, 1914. In his trench, Allistor Kirkland shivers against the cold, joining his Scottish troops for a measly Christmas meal of hardtack and whiskey. “Evenin’ Jake, sure gave those Jerries Hell,” he said, patting a man on the back, “Keep up the good work, all a’ you lads, and th’ Queen’ll let us all go home early!”

“Really, sir?” a Scot asked, shivering in his kilt.

Allistor smiled wolfishly, “Well, she cant rightly keep us ‘ere if all them Jerries are dead, can she?” The Scots cheered, some throwing back some whiskey, and Allistor sighed, taking a seat on a bench made from frozen mud and taking out his bagpipes. “Enough of all that war talk, tho’, it’s Christmas! Let’s have a song, lads!” he cried, and he swelled open the pipes and began to play a song every Scot would recognize well. Laughing, some of the Scots threw their arms around each other and swayed slowly, singing their hymn:

 

_ Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? _

_ Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and days o’ auld lang syne? _

 

_ For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne! _

_ We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, for days o’ auld lang syne. _

 

_ We twa hae run about the braes, and pu'd the gowans fine! _

_ But we've wander'd mony a weary fit, sin auld lang syne… _

 

_ And we twa hae paidl'd i' the burn, frae morning sun till dine! _

_ But seas between us braid hae roar'd, sin days o’ auld lang syne… _

 

_ For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne! _

_ We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, for days o’ auld lang syne. _

 

_ And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, and surely I'll be mine! _

_ And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne... _

 

_ And there's a hand, my trusty fiere, and gie's a hand o' thine! _

_ And we'll tak a right gude-willy waught, for auld lang syne! _

 

_ For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne! _

_ We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne! _

_ For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne! _

_ We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne… _

 

Over in the German trench, Ludwig stared as  _ Auld Lang Syne _ drifted across No Man’s Land, accompanied by the strains of Allistor’s bagpiping. This was his first war, or at least the first one he was in charge of, and so far it had been a giant dumpster fire of an operation. He’d lost too many men, gained too little ground, was now fighting on two fronts, had useless allies (looking at you, Roderich), and was facing horrific conditions previously unknown to human warfare. Worse still, he feared that the worst was still to come. And unlike the Kaiser had promised him, he had not been home by the time the leaves had fallen from the trees, nor had the King of England been right, when he’d said the war would be over by Christmas. Now he was spending Christmas in the trenches, with his men, instead of at a warm hearth, with his brother.

But this was Christmas, and to have a battle on Christmas would do no one any good. Christmas was a time of peace, not a time of war! Ludwig hopped out of his trench, grabbing one of the tannenbaums and walking across No Man’s Land. He didn’t know the Scottish hymn of  _ Auld Lang Syne,  _ but there was one carol he knew in German, and one that he hoped the Scots and the French would recognize as well. 

 

_ O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum, _

_ Wie treu sind deine Blatter! _

_ O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum, _

_ Wie treu sind deine Blatter! _

 

_ Du grunst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit, _

_ Nein, auch im Winter, wenn es schneit! _

_ O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum, _

_ Wie treu sind deine Blatter! _

 

_ O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum, _

_ Du kannst mir sehr gefallen! _

_ O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum, _

_ Du kannst mir sehr gefallen! _

 

_ Wie oft hat nicht, zur Weihnachtszeit, _

_ Ein Baum von dir, mich hoch erfreut! _

_ O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum, _

_ Du kannst mir sehr gefallen! _

 

_ Du grunst nicht, nur zur Sommerzeit! _

_ Nein, auch im Winter, wenn es schneit! _

_ O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum _

_ Wie treu sind deine Blatter! _

 

As he had hoped, Ludwig heard some of the soldiers singing along in English, French, or Scots. He smiled as he saw a bagpiper come up from the trenches, accompanied by an officer further down the lines. “ _ Guten Abend,  _ Englishmen!” he called.

“Good evening, Germans!” the bagpiper, Allistor Kirkland, called back, “But we’re not English, we’re Scottish!” The Scots behind him cheered.

“We’re English!” Arthur Kirkland cried, waving from atop his trench, “And we wish you a good evening as well, Germans!”

“ _ Bonsoir _ to the lot of you,” Francis called as he came over his trenches, “My apologies for the lateness, but we feared it was a trap!”

“No traps here, Frenchman!” Ludwig responded, “Only Christmas!” For emphasis, he stabbed the tannenbaum into the frozen ground of No Man’s Land, a symbol of peace.

Allistor began walking toward the German, slinging his bagpipe over his shoulders, some Scots following him tentatively. Ludwig did the same, some of his troops following him. Arthur joined them, waving on a few of his soldiers to follow. “Fetch the good wine,” Francis said to one of his men, “And bring it out here,  _ rapidement! _ ” The soldier saluted, then ran into the inner workings of the trench as Francis went to meet the other personifications.

“So we’re not actually gonna have shots fired on Christmas, are we?” Allistor asked as the four of them met in the middle of No Man’s Land.

“I hope not,” Arthur responded, hands folded behind his back, “Otherwise we’ve all brought our men out to be slaughtered.”

“I’d rather that we didn’t,” Ludwig admitted, “I called you three out here for discussion of a truce. For the holiday.”

“Of course, for the holiday,” Arthur nodded in affirmation.

“I figured as much,” Fancis said, smiling as the soldier delivered his wine, “So if there is to be a truce, there is to be a toast,  _ non? _ ”

Scotland, England, and Germany brought out tin cups for France to pour wine in, then after filling his own and setting the bottle down, they all held their cups in a circle. “By the power invested in us as ranking officers of the French, British, unt German Armies,” Ludwig began in a regal, booming voice, “Let there be a ceasefire, until such time as the high holiday of Christmas has passed!”

“Hear, hear!” Allistor cheered, and all four of them raised and threw back their cups, to the jubilation of their troops. Soon, French, German, English, and Scottish troops were intermingling throughout the battlefield, exchanging cigarettes for scarves and shots of whiskey for playing card decks. Soon, after the initial exchange, the entire battlefield fell into one holy hymn, as a symbol of friendship. A hymn they had no idea had been sung on the battlefields of the Franco-Prussian war just 44 years earlier, and soon thousands of German, French, Scottish, and English voices launched into the verses of  _ Silent Night. _

 

_ Silent night, holy night! _

_ All is calm, all is bright! _

_ Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child... _

_ Holy Infant, so tender and mild... _

_ Sleep in heavenly peace! _

_ Sleep in heavenly peace… _

 

_ Silent night, holy night! _

_ Shepherds quake at the sight! _

_ Glories stream from Heaven afar! _

_ Heavenly hosts sing Alleluja! _

_ Christ, the Savior is born! _

_ Christ, the Savior is born… _

 

_ Silent night, holy night! _

_ Son of God! Love’s pure light! _

_ Radiant beams from Thy holy face, _

_ With the dawn of redeeming grace! _

_ Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth! _

_ Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth…  _

 

The Christmas Truce, as it came to be called, is still seen as a triumph of humanity, even in the darkest of times. Even through the horror of the First World War, and the horrors they would still soon face, enemies found it in their hearts to see the common humanity in one another, and what was once a night of stridence and chaos, became a night of serenity and peace. A truly Silent Night.

But, despite all this goodwill, there is still one more scene I would like to show you in these times of good cheer. A point not from the past, but from the future, after the events of this story called  _ Redemption _ come to a close. Christmas Eve, 2026, at the home of one Alfred F Jones, a sprawling mansion in the hills of West Virginia known as Unity Hill.

Unity Hill was a beautiful place, originally built in 1790, alongside the capital of Washington, DC. In fact, the mansion counted as an exclave of the District, as it was considered favoritism for the personification to live in one of the states. It had only originally been built to house Alfred, Alexander, and the Original Thirteen, but it was expanded dozens of times over the years, making it one of the largest buildings in the world, in terms of square footage, dwarfing even the White House and Buckingham Palace with its size. Meant to accomodate all of Alfred’s family, as well as whatever number of guests, Unity Hill as it stands today could house up to 500 people. It sat on a commanding hillside, surrounded by about the same acreage as an international airport of clear, pristine green lawn. Leading up to the house, there was a long, straight road of peach gravel that lead into a circle that encompassed a small garden filled with each of the state’s state flower or flora. Lining the road, peach trees grew along the path, covering the road and creating a tunnel-like effect. Atop the manor itself, the Star-Spangled Banner stood proudly on a high flagpole, centered on the manor’s roof. Lining the edges of the roof, the flags of all the states flew slightly lower than the national ensign, and just recently put in, the Battle Flag of the Army of Northern Virginia joined them, placed at the right side of the Star-Spangled Banner. This time of year, though, snow dusted the West Virginian hills, falling lightly from the cloudy sky as the massive Christmas tree in Unity Hill’s foyer glowed invitingly against the night. 

For the holiday, Alfred had invited almost every nation to Unity Hill for a massive Christmas banquet, and, surprisingly, everyone had agreed, even Switzerland and China, who didn’t like him very much. The first to arrive in a half-black, half-wood panelled Jaguar Mark IX, was Arthur, Francis, Allistor, and Dylan. “Happy Christmas, Alfred,” Arthur said warmly, hugging his son as he stepped inside. 

“Merry Christmas, Dad,” Alfred laughed, hugging him back.

“ _Joyeux Noel,_ _Amerique,_ ” Francis said jovially, “I hope the winter has been treating you well?”

“As well as it will,” Alfred responded, “We can’t complain too much.”

“Now why’s that, Alfie?” Allistor asked, giving Alfred a hug.

“Because Todd will go on a ten hour rant about the ‘Winter in the Yukon’ if we even think about mentioning it around him,” Alfred laughed, “Merry Christmas, Uncle Allistor!”

“Merry Christmas, Alfred!” Dylan said cheerfully, throwing his arms out for a hug.

“Hey, Uncle Dylan!” Alfred smiled, giving him a hug, “Merry Christmas! The others are inside, Suzanne’s preparing the meal in the kitchen with Adelaide, so it’s either going to be something very homey and tasteful, or something with enough Cajun spice to blow your head off. Or some unholy combination of both. In the meantime, I hear Tennessee is setting up something with the other Southerners for some caroling. Please, make yourselves at home!”

“Sounds intriguing,” Arthur said, leading his siblings inside. Next, Patrick and Erin arrived, parking a green Shamrock outside, and they grinned as they stepped inside.

“ _ Nollaig Chridheil, _ Alfred!” Patrick said, holding out a pint of Bailey’s Irish Cream with a green bow on it.

“I’ll make sure Kentucky never finds this,” Alfred said solemnly, “Merry Christmas, Patrick, Aunt Erin.”

Erin laughed and hugged her nephew around the neck, standing on her tiptoes to do it, as Alfred was close to six feet tall, and she was rather short.

“Happy Hanukkah, Alfred!” Yosef called as he helped his mother out of the car, holding a present with menorah wrapping paper in his arms.

“Happy Hanukkah, dude!” Alfred laughed, waving, “Never gonna let that go, are you?”

Israel smirked as he and Judea came up the front steps, “Not a chance, Christian scum.”

“I TOLD YOU IT WASN’T PC!” California cried from the inner halls of the manor, “WE SHOULD’VE JUST CALLED IT A GENERIC HOLIDAY PARTY!”

“NOBODY GIVES A SHIT!” Texas shouted back from the other side of the manor, almost immediately.

“COME AT ME, EL PASO!” California shouted.

“LOADING MY GUN NOW, HOLLYWOOD!” Texas shouted back.

“NO SHOTS FIRED DURING CHRISTMAS!” Alexander shouted from somewhere else, “DON’T MAKE ME COME UP THERE!”

" _Mele Kalikimaka_ , everybody," Hawaii said dryly as Todd snickered beside her.

“You’d probably better just come inside,” Alfred sighed wearily.

Soon, Canada and Prussia arrived, then the Axis, then Russia, China, and all the rest. As the nations milled about in Unity Hill, Tennessee and the other Southerners prepared their instruments. “Howdy, y’all!” James said into a microphone, and the conversation began to die down, “Me and the others here realized that we haven’t really gotten together to sing anything in awhile, and, well, we decided that it might be nice to just sing a little something for y’all for Christmas. So, without futhter ado! One, two, one two three four-” The Southern States struck up their instruments and began to play, James singing with his smooth tenor voice.

 

_ By now in New York City… there's snow on the ground, _

_ And out in California… the sunshine's falling down! _

_ And maybe down in Memphis~, Graceland's all in lights! _

_ And in Atlanta, Georgia~, there's peace on Earth tonight! _

 

_ Christmas in Dixie~! It's snowin' in the pines! _

_ Merry Christmas from Dixie~ to everyone tonight! _

 

_ It's windy in Chicago… the kids are out of school~! _

_ There's magic in Motown… the city's on the move! _

_ In Jackson, Mississippi~, to Charlotte, Caroline~! _

_ And all across the nation... it's a peaceful Christmastime! _

 

_ Christmas in Dixie~! It's snowin' in the pines! _

_ Merry Christmas from Dixie~ to everyone tonight! _

 

_ And from Unity Hill, USA… _

_ Merry Christmas, all y’all! _

_ Merry Christ~mas~! To~night~! _

 

The nations all clapped, and Tennessee blushed at their praise as the Southerners finished out the closing riff of Alabama’s  _ Christmas in Dixie. _ “Thank y’all, thank y’all very much!” he said into the microphone, “Now, for this last one, we’d like to call up a special fiddle player, if we may; our father, Colonel Alexander S Jones! Pa, get up here!”

Alexander’s eyes widened in surprise as he was ushered up the stairs to the balcony the Southerners had converted into a stage. “Kids, I’m honored, but I can’t really play the fiddle anymore,” Alexander said sadly, waving his arm toward his missing one, “I wish I could, but you’re gonna need a different fiddler.”

Alfred hit himself in the head, “Crap! I forgot!” He ran out of the room, then came back with a present wrapped in red, white, and blue paper, labelled  _ To: Alexander, From: Alfred _ . He ran it up the steps and passed it over.

“For me?” Alexander asked, dumbfounded. After Alfred’s nodding, Alexander unwrapped his present, and almost cried after he saw what it was: it was a prothstetic arm, specifically designed for playing a violin or a fiddle. “Th-thank you, Alfred,” Alexander said shakily, trying not to cry as the nations cheered, “Thank you so much!” After giving his brother a firm hug, Alexander fixed the prosthesis to his shoulder and set his fiddle into it, rosining up his bow and waiting for Tennessee’s word. 

Nodding to the others, James began to play, and for the first time in a hundred years, Alexander sawed his fiddle.

After realizing the tune, Alexander began to sing, his low bass tones giving the song the intimacy it needed:

 

_ Let it be Christmas, everywhere, _

_ In the hearts of all people both near and afar, Christmas everywhere! _

_ Feel the love of the season wherever you are, _

_ On those small country roads lined with green mistletoe, _

_ Big city streets where a thousand lights glow! _

 

_ Let it be Christmas, everywhere, _

_ Let heavenly music, fill the air, _

_ Let every heart sing, let every bell ring! _

_ The story of hope, and joy, and peace, _

_ And let it be Christmas, everywhere, _

_ Let heavenly music, fill the air, _

_ Let anger and fear, and hate disappear! _

_ Let there be love that lasts through the year! _

_ Let it be Christmas! _

_ Christmas everywhere! _

 

_ Let it be Christmas, everywhere, _

_ With the gold and silver, the green and the red! _

_ Christmas, everywhere, _

_ In the smiles of all children, asleep in their beds! _

_ In the eyes of young babies their first fallen snow, _

_ Elderly’s memories that never grow old! _

 

_ Let it be Christmas, everywhere, _

_ Let heavenly music, fill the air, _

_ Let every heart sing, let every bell ring! _

_ The story of hope, and joy, and peace, _

_ And let it be Christmas, everywhere, _

_ Let heavenly music, fill the air, _

_ Let anger and fear, and hate disappear! _

_ Let there be love that lasts through the year! _

_ And let it be Christmas, _

_ Christmas everywhere! _

 

_ Let it be Christmas, everywhere, _

_ In the songs that we sing and the gifts that we bring~! _

_ Christmas, everywhere, _

_ In what this day means, and what we believe! _

_ From the sandy white beaches where blue water rolls, _

_ Snow covered mountains and valleys below~! _

_ And let it be Christmas, everywhere, _

_ Let heavenly music, fill the air! _

_ Let every heart sing, let every bell ring! _

_ The story of hope, and joy, and peace! _

_ And let it be Christmas, everywhere! _

_ Let heavenly music, fill the air! _

_ Let anger and fear, and hate disappear! _

_ Let there be love that lasts through the year! _

_ And let it be Christmas…  _

_ Christmas everywhere…  _

_ Christmas everywhere…  _

_ Christmas everywhere! _

 

And with _Let it be Christmas_ finished, the nations all cheered and applauded once more. "Thank you! Thank you all!" Alexander said gladly, "Now from my understanding, Georgia and Louisiana have dinner all finished, so if you'll all make your way to the dining room, please! Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a4YBHZ5Y7ZI - Let it be Christmas  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X4LqIEISiwU - Cantique de Noel  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=14mFabPxk80 - Auld Lang Syne  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xww_oaafCBA - O Tannenbaum  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vjGbi5nz-8A - Christmas in Dixie  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c82SmL1yOH4 - Vom Himmel Hoch, o Engel Kommt  
> (Find the rest your own damn self, I'm not here to spoon feed you foreign languages)
> 
> Merry Christmas everyone! I hope you all have a wonderful holiday, wherever you are, no matter your religion, and that you are with family and friends throughout the Season. Whenever you start feeling down about humanity, remember that they all cared enough to do the things I wrote about above, and maybe have a little more faith. God bless you all. From the good ol' US of A, have a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Merry Kwanzaa, Joyous Tet, Solemn and Respectful Ramadan, Happy New Year, and whatever else holidays I'm probably forgetting.
> 
> Love you all! -Tinhat.


	54. Backdoor Dealings

The nations watched as Basil doubled over laughing, breaking down in the middle of the Hagia Sophia, with several priests staring at him. Holding his gut and falling to his knees, Basil continued to laugh hysterically in the face of the vikinger personification, who was very confused but seemed sort of pleased with himself. At least he’d cheered the poor guy up.

“I-  _ hahahaha!- _ I’m so- I’m so sorry,” Basil gasped, trying to compose himself as he grabbed the altar to pull himself to his feet, “I’ve, - _ whew! _ \- It, ah, it’s been a while since I’ve met anyone,  _ ahem _ , ah, anyone quite so forward as you are.” The Byzantine stepped down from the altar to meet the vikinger, holding out his hand. “I am Basilius Consantinus Patricanus, Personification of the Eastern Roman Empire. Please, call me Basil.”

Erak shook Basil’s hand with enough force to snap a person’s neck, saying, “Nice to meet you, Basil! I’m Erak, Personification of the Vikingers!”

Basil quirked an eyebrow, “I- I’m sorry, what’s a  _ vikinger? _ ” he asked, the term totally unfamiliar to him.

Erak’s mind went into red alert, “I-I mean, the Personification of Skandia! Forget anything I ever said about vikingers! Vikinger? What’s a vikinger? I don’t know, certainly not a group of deadly raiders, anyway, wanna barter?” Erak winced as the words poured out of his younger self’s mouth rapidly. He was still unsure how he managed to be such a bad liar.

Basil blinked several times. “So vikingers are raiders,” he said conclusively, “From Skandia.”

Erak sighed and slumped his shoulders, “Yes…” he muttered guiltily.

“Skandia, as in, Northwestern Europa, Skandia?” Basil specified, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

“Yes…” Erak said again, more defeated.

“And these raids you go out on,” Basil continued to press on, “They’d be on the shores of Western Europa? The lands of the old Roman Empire? Britannia, Francia, Lusitania, and Hispania?”

“ _ Yes… _ ” Erak said again, even more resigned to the fact that he was in no good graces.

“My brothers are the personifications of Western Europa,”  Basil said matter-of-factly, “So all those goods you have to trade must be stolen from them.”

Erak’s eyes widened as he realized he’d just lost his left nut. “Oh shit,” he said.

Basil eyed the vikinger closely. He thought of the numerous shouting matches he’d had with his family, especially Clement. Eventually, after one argument left the construction of St. Peter’s Basilica delayed for another fifty years, Clement had excommunicated him.  _ Him! _ Not only his brother, but an entire empire! That was when he became the Personification of Orthodoxy, and that argument was forever called the Great Schism. “I hate my brothers,” he said eventually, and Erak looked up. “How do you feel about three million reeles of silver for everything you have?”

Erak’s eyes bugged, “ _ THREE MILLION!? _ ” he gasped, “Da-I mean, I don’t know… three million is a little low for  _ everything  _ I’ve got…” Erak changed tact quickly, ever the thrifty merchant.

“Don’t try to hustle me,” Basil said flatly.

“Three million reeles it is!” Erak responded immediately, shaking Basil’s hand again, “Though… you know… three million really  _ is _ a lot… I don’t know if I’d feel right about you giving me so much for so little…”

“You just tried to ask for more,” Basil reminded him.

“That was before,” Erak said dismissively, waving his massive hand, “I mean now! You seem a pretty bang-up guy! I couldn’t possibly let a friend like that get swindled so much! Especially by someone as good at swindling as me!”

Basil’s lips twitched. “So we’re friends, are we?” he asked dryly, “After one business deal and knowing each other for a minute and a half?”

Erak grinned broadly, “I don’t see why not! I could use a few more friends! Gets a little lonely up at my place, I’m afraid…”

Basil studied him again. There was pain in his voice. Loneliness. A feeling he understood all too well. “I could use some more of those too,” he said eventually, “That’s why to cover the rest of the money, I’m going to ask a few favors of you. As a friend.”

Erak nodded sagely, “Of course. As a friend.”

“I want you to raid Western Europa without mercy!” Basil said darkly, a sinister gleam in his lavender eyes.

“You mean your brothers?” Erak asked, “Why? Aren’t they family?”

“Oh, sure, they’re family alright,” Basil muttered, “But you forgot the part where I hate them. I don’t want them  _ dead _ , per say, but I do want them  _ absolutely miserable. _ Just keep your raids up, collect more silver, pick up a few European women, I don’t care. Just make their lives hell for me.”

“Sheesh, what these guys  _ do _ to you?” Erak asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise, “I only have two brothers, and I barely know ‘em!”

Byzantium hummed noncommittally, “They  _ haven’t  _ done anything.  _ Yet. _ ” 

“Yet?” Erak asked.

“You see, I received a prophecy a while ago,” Basil sighed, “From an old enemy I finally vanquished. The man that killed my father. He told me that my family would betray me. Leave me behind. And in many ways, they already have. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Great Schism?”

“The what?” Erak asked blankly.

“The Great Schism?” Basil pressed, “The division of Christendom? The foundation of Orthodoxy?” After the blank looks Erak kept giving him, Basil sighed. “The short version, I guess, is that my brother, Clement Vargas, is the personification of the Catholic Church. Up until recently, he was the only one. Then, he and I had a massive argument about my icons, and about how apparently ‘blasphemous’ they are, and I burned his house down. We don’t talk anymore. The rest of my family stood by and did nothing while Clement excommunicated me, and my entire nation. He dared to tell an entire culture that they would never go to Heaven! All because he resented me!”

“That’s… heavy,” Erak decided, scratching the back of his head, “That’s why I don’t deal in all that stuff. Religion is a fickle thing, always changing, always breeding violence. Give me silver, gold, and jewels! Always dependable, those old standards.”

“You literally murder and pillage for a living,” Basil retorted flatly, “That’s about as violent as it gets.”

Erak grinned wolfishly, “That may be true, but at least that’s predictable violence. Violence I can depend on! But religious wars? Never go well, for either side, no matter how peaceful they claim the god is, or how warlike. Gods are supposed to be something you believe in, they can inspire you to take a stand, sure, but they shouldn’t be used like that. People shouldn’t pervert that faith into a reason for war. I’ve seen those religious shaman types, drumming up good, honest folk to rush off to their deaths. No good, I tell ya, no good at all. It’s fine that we humans fight, it’s in our nature, but believing that some higher power will reward you for dying for nothing? That’s stupid. That’s why I wait for an honorable door to Valhalla. I don’t just rush on to every battlefield, ready to die. I want to fall for something I believe in, axe in hand, defending it to my final breaths. Then, and only then, will I allow the valkyries to take me.”

Basil looked at him. “You’re a lot more philosophical than you let on, my burly friend,” he said eventually, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Which brings me to my second favor.”

Eral spread his hands invitingly, “Name it.”

“How would you like a job? An honest one?” Basil asked him.

“What do you have in mind?” Erak responded, intrigued.

Basil smiled, “Back in my father’s day, there was an elite group of soldiers called the Praetorian Guard. They were the best of the best, handpicked by the Emperor himself to be his personal bodyguards. While the Praetorians were around, both the Emperor and my father were untouchable. I’ve long been searching for something equivalent here, in my nation. From my understanding, you and your men a quite good at fighting.”

Erak grinned. “Bodyguard duty,” he said, “A few of my men would like that. Hel, I might join up to when I’m retired! You’ve got yourself a deal! A new Praetorian Guard, made up of my best men!”

“I think we’ll call it something different,” Basil said, tapping his chin, “Something that acknowledges their vikinger heritage… how about, the Varangian Guard?”

Erak laughed and stuck out his hand, “Varangian it is!” Basil shook his hand, and the deal was sealed. The Varangian Guard would protect the Byzantine Empire, and in turn, the Byzantine Empire would provide a peaceful, open, and most importantly, profitable market for the Scandinavians and their viking spoils. And, of course, the vikingers would continue to raid, pillage, and plunder the coasts of Western Europe. As a personal favor to a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: The Byzantine Empire actually had an elite team of bodyguards made up of actual fucking Vikings, and their descendants, called the Varangian Guard. This served as the whole basis for Erak and Basil's friendship in the series. Also, I recommend keeping your eye out for chibi!Denmark and chibi!Sweden sometime in the near future... ;)


	55. Joy and Fury

The image shimmered, and the nations leaned forward with interest. They had never known of such an alliance between the Vikings and the Byzantines, and the prospect of such a deal, while terrifying at the time, was intriguing in retrospect. The imagery blurred, and they watched as Erak left and returned to Constantinople several times, each time raiding the coasts of Europe and returning with a bigger and bigger haul. Soon, it settled on Erak pulling into port, teen versions of Sweden and Denmark alongside him. Basil walked along the boardwalk to meet them, calling, “ _ Chaire _ , Erak! Who’s this you’ve brought with you?”

Erak was practically beaming as he leapt from the ship, “Basil, for the longest time I’ve been dying for you to meet my sons! Well, now these two are finally old enough, so allow me to introduce Berwald and Matthias, my two eldest!” Denmark and Sweden shuffled forward nervously, eyeing the Byzantine personification warily.

Basil, on the other hand, lit up as he laid eyes on the boys. “Your sons?  _ Really? _ My God, congratulations, Erak! You must be so proud!” he said excitedly, “Boys, it’s wonderful to meet you! I’m Basil Patricanus, Personification of the Eastern Roman Empire! Your father and I have been good friends for a long time.” He held out his hand, and Matthias took it first.

“Nice to meet you!  _ Far’s _ told us a lot about you!” the young Dane said eagerly, “You’re supposed to be really, really strong, right? Let’s spar sometime!”

Basil looked a little taken aback, but smiled and shook the boy’s hand all the same. “I’m Berwald,” Sweden said quietly, his eyes avoiding Basil’s, “Nice to meet you.” Basil shook his hand, but it seemed that Sweden wasn’t quite comfortable shaking the empire’s hand, so he let it be. The present nations, however, were wondering how Berwald was speaking with such perfect diction. Nowadays, his words were unfortunately slurred and his speech was nearly incomprehensible, but no one had ever known why. Out of view of everyone else, Denmark looked down guiltily as Finland gave him the death glare.

Meanwhile, Erak was fawning over his kids with Basil as they walked a troop of soon-to-be Varangian Guards up to the Hagia Sophia. “I found five of them in the snow, Basil!  _ Five!”  _ Erak laughed excitedly, “My prayers to Freya were answered! I’ll never be lonely again!”

Basil smiled warmly, responding “I’m elated for you, my old friend. One day, I hope you can bring each of them here for me to meet.”

Erak got a sudden spark in his eyes as he put forth an idea, “Why don’t you come visit them in Skandia?”

Basil grinned, “And freeze my left nut off on those frigid seas? No, I’ll stay where it’s nice and warm, thank you.”

“Oh,  _ come on _ , it’s not  _ that _ cold!” Erak protested, then he noticed a Varangian huddling over a certain spot on the wall. “Halfdan!” he scolded, “Get away from there!”

“Sorry, captain,” Halfdan sighed, but he was grinning like crazy as he tucked a carving knife into a pocket behind his back, out of Erak’s sight. Unbeknownst to either Basil or Erak, the young Varangian had carved a message that would remain undeciphered for centuries, until modern archaeologists finally decoded it in the 20th Century:  _ Halfdan was here _ .

The scene changed, and Erak and Basil stood at a balcony watching the Varangians train in a courtyard as a messenger burst through the doors behind him. He was a Skandian, his sheepskin vest and stark white skin betraying his origin immediately, and he frantically knelt before Erak, trying to catch his breath. “A message… for Captain Erak…” he panted.

“Odin’s Beard, boy!” Erak yelped, going to the messenger and helping him up, “What’s the matter? What’d you go and run yourself half to death for?”

The messenger looked up, and both Basil and Erak started as they saw the tears in his eyes. “Captain,” he wailed, “It’s the English! They’ve-- they’ve--!”

“They’ve  _ what _ , boy?” Erak demanded, his voice rising in panic, “Speak!”

The messenger sobbed. “They’ve executed Ragnar Lothbrok!” he cried.

Erak’s eyes became distant. Ragnar Lothbrok was a legend, one of the most powerful Vikinger kings to ever exist, rivalling even Rollo the Walker. For him to be dead… Erak sank to the floor. “By the Gods of Asgard,  _ no… _ ” he whispered, and Byzantium quickly knelt beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Erak knelt and cried for his lost leader, his friend staying by him in support as the giant warrior let his feelings out. It was odd, Basil decided, that such a massive, burly man should be so emotional, but he was no fairweather friend. Unlike  _ some _ brothers he knew.

After calming down, Erak sighed fitfully, “Thank you, my friend,” he sighed, his voice tight with emotion, “I needed that. Ragnar was… Ragnar was brilliant. The entire Norse World will mourn his passing.” Erak then stood up and wiped his eyes, looking out at the sun setting over the Black Sea. “And there is only one way a Vikinger mourns…” he said viciously, drawing his axes, “ _ Let all the gods stand as witness! I shall raise the greatest army of vikingers this world has ever seen! I shall march on England and destroy them all, and I shall AVENGE THE DEATH OF RAGNAR LOTHBROK!! _ ” Erak’s furious roar echoed across the sea, and the scene shimmered.

A storm raged over the frigid waves of the English Channel as Vikinger dragonships crested the waves. There were dozens of the things, hundreds, thousands of warships sailing into English territory. At the prow of one of the ships, Denmark held up a hollowed out ram’s horn, raised it to his lips, and blew. A long, solitary note sounded through the storm, and soon it was answered by a thousand more. The horns blew again, and again, and the first ships hit the shingle beaches of the British Isles. Vikingers marched ashore, forming columns and ranks, and at the head were terrifying Vikinger leaders like Ivar the Boneless, Ubba, Hvitserk, and Bjorn Ironside. From the soldiers, a white pennant bearing the black design of Odin’s Raven was raised, and from the ranks, Erak Ingenson marched forward, his axes in hand. In the crowd, the nations recognized younger versions of Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Finland, and even Iceland. The leaders fell in behind Erak, a ram’s horn was sounded once more, and the Vikingers began to march. 

At the English camp, Arthur looked up at the distant sound of a ram’s horn. The trees swayed in the wind, and thunder boomed in the dark clouds. Arthur shivered; there was no doubt about it. This was the greatest display of power the Vikingers had ever put on, the largest army of raiders and thieves to ever sail the seven seas. The Great Heathen Army was on the march.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Far - Danish/Swedish for "Father"  
> Chaire - Greek for "hello"
> 
> Fun fact: there are in fact a set of Nordic runes in the Hagia Sophia that for the longest time were considered sacred. That was, until a study in Istanbul by Turkish scientists discovered that the runes simply read "Halfdan carved these runes". This random ass Viking warrior from the 800s AD trolled us with the original "___ was here", people. This is an actual fact. Halfdan was there!
> 
> Also, there is nothing cooler than an entire army of vikings, and no cooler name for it than "The Great Heathen Army". Prove me wrong. I'll wait.
> 
> Last thing, I hope that you've all noticed that this is a series now! Redemption has three planned sequels, all of which I hope you'll enjoy. Especially because I filled a six by three foot whiteboard with the largest and most elaborate storyboard this world has ever seen. In light of all the writing I have to get done for this ridiculously large project to be done in a timely fashion, I will try to update chapters on Fridays as well, barring any extenuating circumstances. Don't expect Friday updates to be consistent, but they should happen pretty frequently.
> 
> Peace, leave kudos and comments and all that, love you guys, Tinhat out.


	56. The March of the Great Heathen Army

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erak leads his troops into Anglo-Saxon England, destroying everything in his wake. Arthur works tirelessly to stop him.

The nations watched as Erak marched ashore, the sound of his men’s feet echoing through the Isles. Britannia shook as the Great Heathen Army invaded, and peasants and farmers ran as they saw them. 

In those days, England was divided into four kingdoms: Northumbria to the north, East Anglia to the east, Mercia to the west, and Wessex to the south. Arthur split his duties between them, and often did not participate in the government at all, instead preferring to roam around the British countryside, hoping to assist the less fortunate. Now, however, Arthur stood on a great hill, overlooking the country as he watched the Great Heathen Army lay waste to a Northumbrian monastery. He watched as Erak’s men slaughtered the Britons, leaving death, fire, and destruction in their wake, seizing the holy relics and stealing the valuables. After the vikingers had finished burning the monastery, they marched on southwest, and Arthur shivered. This was unlike anything else he’d seen from the vikingers. This was no longer a coastal raid or a simple monastery pillaging, these men were not a loose crew of pirates and brigands. They were an army of professional soldiers, a well-oiled war machine, far superior to his forces of conscripted peasants and laborers. And a professional army like that could only have one goal… the Northumbrian capital of York. Arthur drew his sword and ran down the hill to his horse, spurring it onward to the southwest. Soon, York would be under siege.

The Battle of York was truly no battle at all. The Northumbrians put up little resistance against the vikingers, and York was made a burning husk of what it once was. The nations saw Erak step through the burning remains of a building, axes in hand, as he stood over the broken and bleeding form of a man in battle armor. This was the beaten Ælla, King of Northumbria, his castle currently being besieged by the Great Heathen Army. Ælla coughed up blood, trying to crawl away from the vikinger to take up his sword, but Erak swung his axe down into the king’s wrist. Ælla screamed, then tried to crawl away from Erak, leaning up against a wooden chest.

“I demand a Danegeld, puny king!” Erak snarled, “A Danegeld for my fallen leader! Pay me the gold, and I will leave Northumbria with its sovereignty!” 

King Ælla groaned. “F-fine,” he spluttered, hugging his bleeding arm to his chest, “Take your gold! Just leave Northumbria, and never return!” He grasped at a latch on the chest, opening it a revealing the gold.

Erak smiled, saying “Thank you for your generosity, O Wise King Ælla.” Then, Erak swung his axe once more, alleviating the Northumbrian king’s shoulders of his head.

Erak stepped away from the body, took up the chest, then out into the streets of York. He raised his bloody axe, and slowly, ever so slowly, the killing stopped. Matthias and Berwald appeared by his side, along with Ivar the Boneless. Erak showed them the Danegeld, a customary bribe the Anglo-Saxons had taken up to get viking crews to leave them be, then grinned savagely. “Seems the Northumbrians get to keep their lands, boys,” he laughed, “But, unfortunately, His Majesty King Ælla neglected to say how much before he was rendered, ah, ‘incapable of ruling’. What do you think?”

Ivar eyed the chest. “Not much,” he grunted, “Hardly worth the whole of Northumbria.”

“I agree,” Matthias nodded, “Not much at all… how about the swamplands to the west?”

Berwald nodded. “That’ll do. Not much out there for them to rebel against us with. And, if King Ælla is as ‘incapable of ruling’ as I assume, we could always replace him with someone more… agreeable,” he added. Once again, it struck the nations how well Sweden was able to speak, and once again, Finland shot a glare at Denmark.

Erak grinned, “Good thinking, Berwald! Start these Northumbrians on the path west. Any resist, Matthias, and you put ‘em in chains; we could always use more slaves for the markets in Dublin. Keep this up, you two, and we’ll make jarls outta’ you yet!”

Matthias and Berwald smiled at the high praise, then scampered off to complete their tasks. “What of  _ Jorvik? _ ” Ivar asked him as Erak placed the Danegeld on the ground, using the Norse word for  _ York _ .

“Well, are these the swamplands to the west?” Erak asked, to which Ivar looked at him.

“No?” he said carefully.

Erak grinned wolfishly, “Then fuck it! It’s ours!” Ivar laughed, and the scene shimmered. York would remain in the hands of the vikingers for centuries afterward.

When the scene reilluminated, it kept shimmering in and out of focus. It showed various battles and invasions by the vikingers as they swept down through the English countryside. Mercia fell quickly, and Erak and his men seized the power centers of Nottingham and Cambridge. All the while, Arthur fought alongside the Mercians, but their conscript army was no match for the professional warriors of the vikings. After the Fall of Mercia, Arthur fled to East Anglia, Erak hot on his trail. The East Anglians tried to pay a Danegeld, but they had tried that trick before. The vikingers had landed at East Anglia first, and now they were back to finish the job. The nations watched as Erak captured the East Anglian King Edmund, killing him with his axe in the same fashion he’d killed Ælla. Then, as soon as East Anglia had fallen, Erak declared it to be Norse land.

Arthur fled once more, this time for the last Anglo-Saxon kingdom left: Wessex. Erak and his vikingers pursued him, but this raid was far grander than that. The Great Heathen Army divided into four campaigns, Ubba lead an expedition into Wales and Ireland. Ivar the Boneless lead his army north, past Northumbria and into Pictland. The remaining forces returned to York to spend the winter, while Arthur huddled into the West Saxon capital of Winchester. 

In York, there was feasting and merriment as the vikingers celebrated their good fortune. Erak stood at the head of a great table, saying, “My friends, rejoice! We’ve defeated those bastards of East Anglia! Now, all that stands in our way is the tiny kingdom of Wessex, and their weak king Æthelred!” The vikingers cheered, then Erak grinned as he continued, “Not only this, but once the warm season returns, Guthrum will sail from Geatland, and land on this islands eastern shore! Together, we will advance on Winchester and crush the West Saxons once and for all! Come summer, Britannia will be ours!” The cheer rose throughout the hall, and the vikingers began a season long feast of partying and celebration. After all, what had they to fear from little old Wessex?

Arthur, meanwhile, finally reached the court of the West Saxon King Æthelred in Winchester. Æthelred sat on his throne, gray hairs poking through his dark hair, while Arthur explained to him the situation. “Northumbria, Mercia, and East Anglia have fallen, sire,” Arthur sighed defeatedly as he knelt before the King of Wessex,  “The heathens are advancing into Wales and Pictland as we speak. For now, the main force winters at York, which they seized from the late Lord Ælla. Come summer, they will focus their barbary on the fair land of Wessex.”

Æthelred looked troubled. “This is… terrible news, Sir Kirkland,” the king began, “But… there is little we can do. The soldiers must return to their farms for the winter. We will prepare all that we can, but… this may be the end.”

Arthur sighed as King Æthelred left the throne room for his chambers, then collapsed into a sitting position. He’d fought the vikingers as long as he could, and now Wessex was his only hope. And even that seemed fleeting. “Come now, lad, cheer up!” a voice said behind him, and Arthur turned to see a tall man with a brilliant white smile, holding out a hand to help him up, “We’ll beat back those heathens in no time flat! Just keep in good spirits, and we’ll do fine.”

Arthur dumbly took the man’s hand, helping himself up. “Who… are you?” he asked the strange man, and the man laughed.

“Why, Britannia, I’m hurt!” he laughed, “It’s me! It’s Alfred, Prince of Wessex!”

Arthur’s eyes widened, and so did America’s. The rest of the nations looked on with interest. There was only one person could be: Alfred’s namesake, King Alfred the Great. The man who halted the advance of the Great Heathen Army, and saved the Anglo-Saxons of Wessex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's a Friday? Yeah sorry, I had stuff going on Friday, in which I saw Knives Out (which you should TOTALLY see if you love mystery thrillers) and family stuff. But Friday posts ARE STILL HAPPENING!
> 
> Also, I apologize for the dryness of today's chapter, but we have to get through the dry military stuff to get to the juicy last stand.


	57. Ashdown

The nations stared at Alfred the Great, smiling and laughing in the face of certain doom, and were struck by how similar he was to their Alfred. Suddenly, they could see where Arthur had gotten the name. Soon, the scene shimmered, and the nations found themselves standing on a hillside. Æthelred and Alfred stood at the vanguards of their armies, and across the field, Erak and Guthrum stood at the head of their vikingers.

Alfred raised his sword, crying, “Come, brothers! We stop the Heathens here, at Ashdown! Charge!” The West Saxons roared, and alongside Alfred and Arthur they barreled down the hill toward the waiting vikingers, who formed a shield wall. Æthelred’s forces lingered on the hillside, and the king stood in contemplation as he watched his brother lead the charge. 

“Too brash,” Æthelred said, “Too reckless… but exactly what we need. Retainer! Prepare a chapel. We must pray for victory!” Æthelred’s retainer scampered off, and the King of Wessex looked longingly down at the battle, like he wanted to assist, but knew he must wait. “You are the greatest of us, Alfred,” he sighed to himself, “If Wessex is to survive… it must be under  _ your _ leadership, not mine.”

Thus, the Battle of Ashdown began. The West Saxon and Vikinger shield walls met, and the killing started, screams echoing war cries as the warriors slaughtered each other. Erak laughed as he saw the West Saxons struggling, then spotted his quarry: Arthur. Erak drew his axes and leapt at the Englishman, who drew  _ Excalibur _ just in time to parry the blow. “ _ You! _ ” Arthur snarled, “What do you want from me!?”

Erak grinned wolfishly, swinging his axe for a blow to the left side, catching Arthur on his plated armor. “Nothin’ in particular!” he laughed, “Gold, jewels, riches, an’ the like!”

Arthur cursed as he slashed as Erak’s right hand, trying to disarm him. “If that were true,” he hissed, “You would’ve come here as a raider, not a conqueror!”

Erak’s face darkened as he caught  _ Excalibur _ ’s blade by the crossguard, the tip just inches from his heart. “Alright, lad, I’ll tell ye the truth…” he murmured lowly, “I’ been hired by someone. An acquaintance o’ yours. Doesn’ want you  _ dead _ , per say, but certainly wants you  _ hurt! _ ” Erak swung his axes up in an “X” motion, sending  _ Excalibur _ spinning up into the air and falling toward the earth far behind Arthur.

Arthur cursed and stumbled as he was disarmed, then collapsed to the ground as Erak kicked him down. “I really am sorry about all this, lad,” Erak sighed, raising his axe above his head almost regretfully, “But a friend is a friend. And business is business.” Arthur gasped as he saw the axe swing back, behind Erak’s head, and time seemed to slow down. Arthur watched as a vikinger axe broke through a West Saxon shield, and blood spilled to the ground. He watched as his men fell one by one, Prince Alfred raising his sword in the chaos, trying to spur his soldiers on, but the peasant conscripts were breaking. They were losing. 

Then, suddenly, a horn sounded. Erak stopped in confusion, his axe still raised, and Arthur looked up. It wasn’t the same note as the ram’s horn of the vikingers, but a brass horn, used by the English. From the west side of the hill, both armies heard the pounding of running feet, and the war cry of the Anglo-Saxons, and stared in disbelief as the army of Æthelred joined the battle.

Æthelred’s forces swept through the ranks, meeting a hastily formed vikinger shield wall, and the battle began anew. As Erak stared, Arthur made a mad dash for  _ Excalibur _ , claiming his weapon and turning to face the raider once more. Erak growled, then attacked Arthur again, but something was different. Arthur felt energized, as if he’s been caught by a second wind, and he successfully parried Erak’s attacks, even managing to cut open a gash on the vikinger’s forearm. Something warm lit up inside of him, like a warm fire on a cold night, and Arthur’s eyes widened as he realized he was feeling the effects of the intense nationalism of the West Saxons. They were not here to fight for gold, or riches, or glory. They were here to fight for their families, their home, their beloved Wessex, and Arthur felt it. He felt their fighting spirit, and it guided his sword, flooding his limbs with power, giving his mind an extra level of clarity. Now, he was more than a match for these vikingers, and he knew it. Unbeknownst to him, his emerald green eyes were glowing malachite, and Erak recognized the power that the young Englishman possessed. 

“Grrr…” Erak growled as he saw that the West Saxon reinforcements were routing his men, and reluctantly, he called retreat. “This isn’t over, Englishman,” he swore, “Not by a longshot!”

The vikingers fled, and the West Saxons stood in confusion. They’d never routed the vikingers before. It seemed an impossible task, but here they were. They’d done it. They’d defeated the vikingers! Not for good, but they’d proved it could be done! They were not invincible! The West Saxons cheered and threw up their arms in jubilation.

Then, a circle cleared around a fallen warrior, and Arthur and Alfred broke through to see. The man was bloodied, red staining his gray-flecked hair. His armor shone scarlet in the setting sun, and on his head, the crown he wore was horribly askew. Alfred gasped. Æthelred, the King of Wessex, had fallen in battle. Which meant…

Arthur knelt, as did the rest of the West Saxons. “All hail Alfred,” Arthur said in a booming voice, “The new King of Wessex!” 

“HAIL!” The West Saxons cried, and poor King Alfred looked on in shock. He was the king now. His brother had left the kingdom in his hands, and now it was up to him to drive back certain doom from Wessex’s borders. He had a lot to do.

The scene shimmered and blurred, and the nations watched as Alfred set about reforming Wessex. He reformed the army, training professional soldiers, then personally lead campaigns against Guthrum and his raiders. Vikingers were no good in a siege, and Alfred used that to his advantage, trapping the invaders in cities and starving them out with his superior supply lines. Guthrum’s reinforcements from Ubba in Ireland were sunk, and soon, the vikingers had nowhere left to turn. They were fed up, Wessex was supposed to be easy pickings, and now they were starving in cities in stead of dying gloriously on the battlefield. This was not the Vikinger Way. Finally, Erak and Guthrum agreed to meet Alfred and Arthur at the table of peace for discussions of surrender.

“So it’s decided,” Alfred said as the negotiations wrapped up, “Wessex shall retain its sovereignty, and you Danes shall keep your conquered holdings, on the stipulation that you will never again return to Wessex with your armies.”

“So it is…” Guthrum muttered, humiliated. Reluctantly, he shook hands with King Alfred and began to leave the room. 

Then, Erak stood up and looked Arthur in the eye. “You’ve impressed me, Englishman,” he said neutrally, “You are a great warrior. Know this: I cannot go back on my promise to oppose you, but know that you have gained my respect as a worthy adversary. I hope that I will meet you again, side by side on the battlefield of Ragnarok. I would be honored to face the armies of Hel at your side.”

Arthur looked at him, then at Erak’s outstretched hand. “Likewise,” he said, shaking the raider’s hand. With that, Erak left the room, beginning to wonder how he would organize his new territory. He supposed he could put Matthias in charge, it would do the boy good to have some responsibility. But what to call it…

Erak snapped his fingers in a stroke of genius. It was a land under the law of a Dane! A Danelaw! _Erak, you are a creative_ genius! he thought to himself, and then he lead his armies out of Wessex.

King Alfred the Great had been victorious. Wessex had been saved, and Anglo-Saxon culture preserved. Now, only one contest remained: the final showdown. Britannia could not remain an island divided. Soon, there would be only one dominant power here, and it would either be Erak and his Norsemen, or Arthur, and the English.

Only time would tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's technically Tuesday, but I don't think that's the important part here.


	58. The Death of a Vikinger

The nations watched as centuries passed in minutes. Erak continued on his raids, leaving Matthias in charge of the Danelaw, who took to his duties with alacrity. At the same time, Arthur grew stronger and stronger, bringing more and more territory back under English rule. Soon, he graduated from the Kingdom of Wessex to the Kingdom of England, and he became an increasingly annoying thorn in the side of the vikingers. Soon, England became too powerful for the young Dane to handle, and he called his father back to the British Isles.

The scene shimmered to life as the nations saw a young Matthias standing on a dock, greeting his father’s dragonship as it sailed into port. “ _ Far _ , it’s been too long!” Matthias laughed, hugging his father as he came ashore.

“Matthias!” Erak responded, just as jovial, “My boy, I need to tell you of my adventures! You remember how you and I found Greenland? Well, I took a few men with me and sailed out farther west, and Odin’s Beard, you wouldn’t believe what I found!”

Matthias looked excited, asking, “What was it,  _ far? _ ”

Erak looked like a giddy schoolboy, and he laughed as he said, “There’s a whole  _ new continent,  _ Matthias! And there was a woman there, a nation, like you and me! She wouldn’t tell me her name, and she shot at me a couple times, but I’m sure she was like us! That means there are people there, Matthias! People that have been cut off from Europe and the rest of the world since, since… forever! We’re talking about a  _ totally new world! _ ”

With the present nations, Matthew, Alfred, and Alexander gasped. There was only one person Erak could possibly be talking about…

Meanwhile, Matthias looked stunned. “That’s amazing,  _ far! _ ” he exclaimed, “What are you calling the new land?”

Erak scratched his chin, “Now see, that’s the tricky bit, I was thinkin’...  _ Vinland _ .”

Matthias thought about it, then shook his head. “I don’t think it’ll catch on,” he said dismissively.

Erak looked wounded, “Why, Matthias! You’ll break your old man’s heart!”

“Oh, you’re strong, get over it,” Matthias returned snarkily, his smile shining through his voice.

Erak sighed melodramatically, “Ah, but my son, I am so  _ old,  _ my joints creak and my beard has gone gray! I haven’t the strength anymore…”

Matthias punched his arm playfully, and the two laughed together. Though, as the nations watched, they realized that not all of what Erak had said was melodramatics. His beard did indeed look gray, and his movements seemed stiffer than usual. Matthias, on the other hand, looked older, more mature, healthy and fit. When a nation started to age and their child started to grow, that was usually a sign of power beginning to wane. With a shock, they realized that Erak was dying. Which meant the Viking Age must be coming to an end.

As if sensing the shift in mood, Past Matthias looked troubled as the laughing winded down. “ _ Far… _ ” he started awkwardly, “He’s growing stronger. Far stronger than I can handle. If we do not stop him, he will reclaim his island. I fear it may already be too late…”

Erak looked at his son very seriously. “I had a long voyage to think about this, my boy… and I’ve come to a decision. You and Berwald are to return to the Varangian Guard in Constantinople, and I will remain here.”

Matthias looked stricken. “No,  _ Far _ , please, I can help! I-if you think I’m not strong enough, let me prove myself-!”

Erak cut off his son by placing a hand on his shoulder. “This is not about your strength, Matthias,” he sighed, his electric blue eyes flashing like lightning over a stormy sea, “I have no doubt that you are one of the strongest warriors out of any of us. I just fear you’d be throwing your life away for nothing. You are young, there is so much potential in you. You will live for centuries yet. But me? I am old. I can afford to die here.”

“But  _ Far! _ ” Mattias protested, but Erak cut him off again.

“I swore an oath to guard Byzantium, my boy,” he said solemnly, “By our custom, if I die that oath falls to you and Berwald. You know this. You must be strong, my boy. Please. Guard them in my place.”

Matthias looked anguished as he stared into his father’s eyes. “Fine…” he said bitterly, “I’ll depart as soon as I can and pick up Berwald in Stockholm on the way.”

Erak smiled tiredly and patted his son on the shoulder, then after a moment passed between them, he stepped away to begin dealing with the crisis at hand. As Erak stepped away, the scene shimmered, and the nations gasped as they saw a battle raging around them. English and Norse warriors brawled around them, and they spotted Erak Ingenson in the storm.

As he reached a clearing in the bloodshed, Erak took off his helmet and panted as he tried to catch his breath. Blood trickled down his beard, and he’d clearly been fighting for a while. As he stared around him, at the English soldiers increasingly proving themselves as equals to his vikingers, Erak smiled wistfully, and exhaled deeply. Then, peculiarly, he started speaking to the battlefield.

“So this is it, hm?” he sighed, “The end of the Great Viking Age. I understand. I have felt my power waning. I always knew a life of sailing the seas and living free could never last forever. But I have lived with no regrets. I discovered new lands, conquered kingdoms, acquired wealth the world may never know again, and done things most men would never dare to dream… but I’d throw it all away, because I have accomplished the singular greatest thing in my life… I have built a family. From five boys I found in the snow, and a best friend from a far away land of plenty, I have made my life worth living. And now, I am content. I will give my life to allow my people to live on… to allow my  _ family _ to live on. I rest easy, and contented knowing that I have left my mark, that I have signed my name in the pages of history!” Erak replaced his helmet, then drew his axes. Raising his voice, he called to his men. “FALL BACK!” he cried, “ACROSS THE BRIDGE! MAKE FOR THE SHORE AND SET SAIL! I WILL COVER YOU!!” 

With that, Erak turned to face the English army as the vikingers fled across Stamford Bridge. At the head of the vanguard, Arthur Kirkland held up his hand, and the English forces paused at the sight of a single, old warrior standing defiantly against them on a bridge, covering his compatriots’ retreat. Then, Arthur recognized him, and nodded in understanding. As the vikingers fled, Arthur slashed his hand down, and the English charged the bridge. Erak bellowed a war cry, and leapt at the enemy forces. For the next hour, Erak was a killing machine, slaughtering Englishman after Englishman, holding the bridge until every singly vikinger had fled across the bridge. His axes flew through English armor, his head smashed into their weaker helmets and he headbutted them, his fist found a few noses. For the first time, many nations witnessed the power of a Norse berserker. Soon, though, his age began to show, and his leg was kicked out from under him. Groaning, Erak fell to one knee, then hastily raised his axe to defend himself from an overhead strike. Blinking through blood pouring down from a cut above his eye, Erak looked up, and cried out as an English boot collided with his face. He fell flat onto the wooden bridge, grunting as he raised his axe once more, but this was the end. He looked up, and saw Arthur driving  _ Excalibur _ downward toward his heart, and for just a moment, smiled. The blade struck true, and the English marched onwards across the bridge. Erak’s body remained, axes still in hand, as his culture demanded. He had died a warrior. Valhalla awaited him. The Viking Age had come to an end.

The scene shimmered, and the nations saw the sun setting over the Bosphorus Strait as Constantinople stood still. At the dock, Basil paced up and down as Berwald and Matthias stood by, waiting for news. “Not him…” Basil was muttering, “They’ll take everything else,  _ they won’t take him! _ ”

Matthias and Berwald looked at each other, sorrow in both their gazes. The brothers sighed and looked toward the sea. Their father had always loved the sea. The sea was freedom, he’d told them, and the sea went everywhere. As long as they were by the sea, no matter how far apart their family was, they were all only a single sailing trip away. Then, as the sun started to dip below the horizon, Berwald narrowed his eyes as a shape appeared on the water. “Is that…?” he asked, leaving the thought unfinished, then gasped as he saw what it was. 

Across the Bosphorus Strait, a battered dragonship limped into port, and the three assembled nations held their breath. Off from the ship’s deck, soft, seal leather boots hit the dock, and a man in a long, braided gray beard and a sheepskin vest stood up and smiled at them. “Come now, everyone,” Erak Ingenson laughed, “Why the long faces?”

The three stared at him, then cheered as they tackled him in a group hug. “Oh, I thought I’d lost you, old friend…” Basil sighed, clinging tighter to Erak’s vest.

Erak smiled and returned their embraces, saying, “The Viking Age may have come to an end, but that only means a new beginning for me. From now on, I am a Varangian Guard in the Eastern Roman Empire, and a loyal servant to the Emperor.”

Basil smiled, “Good to have you here, old friend, and with no better timing. There’s something happening in the East, something troubling. Something I may need more than just my army for.”

Erak raised an eyebrow, “What is it?”

Basil sighed as he paced down the dock. “They call themselves ‘Turks’,” he said, “They’re Muslims. I’m told their realm stretches even into Iberia and the territory of my brothers, Hispania and Lusitania. And now… they’ve set their sights on me.”

Erak whistled lowly. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us, then. What’s our play?”

Basil bit his lip. “We’re going to Venice,” he said.

“Venice?” Erak asked, “Why Venice?”

“Because,” Basil sighed, his voice sounding pained, “We need to enlist the services of my nephew.”

Italy gasped in horror, and the scene went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death fakeout! I've been wanting to do that in a non-cheap fashion since FOREVER!
> 
> Also, have fun with those easter eggs, as there was a bunch of historical significance to this! This is supposed to be the Battle of Stamford Bridge, which is seen by many as the end of the Viking Age. It happened in 1066, which is only 29 years before a certain series of major historical events that forever changed Europe as we know it. Also, I've decided to give you all a teaser for Tuesday's chapter, because I'm so excited. 
> 
> The next chapter title is: Il Mercante Della Morte
> 
> Have fun!


	59. Il Mercante Della Morte

The nations stared as Italy went into a panic, alarm overtaking them as they watched the normally carefree and ditzy Feliciano start hyperventilating and clutch at his chest as if he couldn’t breathe. “ _ Mein Gott! _ ” Ludwig yelped, rushing to support Feliciano, saying, “Breathe, Feli,  _ breathe! _ ”

Romano materialized next to his brother, whispering comforting words and rubbing the distressed Venician’s back, and for once, not yelling at Ludwig to get away. Just behind him, Kiku started checking his friend over for any signs of physical harm, and finding none, pursed his lips in worry. Clement, with some effort, managed to hobble to his son’s side, taking his hand in support, but Italy seemed to recoil from him.

“By God, what’s wrong with him?” Arthur asked fervently, trying to get past the throng of relatives, but to no avail.

Feliciano’s eyes were wild and crazy, darting this way and that, from Basil, to Arthur, to Alfred, to Sadik, to Gilbert, to Ludwig, to Clement, to Romano, then always back to Ludwig. “No,” he whispered, tears rolling down his face, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no! I don’t want them to see! Stop it!  _ Stop it! Smettila ora! _ ” Feliciano moaned and held his hands to the sides of his head, crying out in Italian and refusing to calm down until Ludwig did something drastic: he kissed him. 

The German, who despised Public Displays of Affection almost as much as America’s legal drinking age, totally ignored everyone else in the room and desperately tried to bring his lover back to reality, leaning forward and kissing Feli with all his passion. Feliciano seemed shocked at first, but soon, his tears subsided, and he closed his eyes and melted into the kiss, holding Ludwig closer to him. After a minute, they broke off, breathing slowly as they touched their foreheads together. They might have looked ridiculous, kneeling in the center of the conference room like that, but in that moment, no one had the heart to call them on it. “Whatever happens,  _ il mio amore,  _ whatever you see,” Feliciano whispered, “You must know that  _ I love you. _ ”

“ _ Ja, _ I know. I will always know,” Ludwig said softly, and then he helped the Italian back to his feet. Romano eyed him suspiciously, but it seemed there would be no further altercation today. After Feliciano started to lean on Ludwig for support, the rest of the nations tentatively turned to watch the new vision.

Erak and Basil walked across the Piazza San Marco, looking around at the opulence of the Floating City, and were captivated by its beauty. This was not even Venice in its prime, at the height of the Renaissance, but nonetheless, it was a sight to behold. Gondolas drifted through the canals, merchants sold their wares in the streets, and all around was a sense of revelry. For the first time, Basil understood just why his father had settled in Italia.

Just then, there came a shout from behind the travelers, “ _ Zio Basilico!  _ You came!”, and both men turned to see a lanky, teenage boy with ruby red hair and an outrageously long curl sticking out to the right, laughing as he ran right toward them. There was no doubt, this was a young Feliciano Vargas. 

Uncharacteristically, Basil actually seemed quite excited to see Feliciano, grinning from ear to ear as he picked his nephew up in a spinning hug, laughing and saying, “My God, Feli! You’ve gotten so big!”

Feliciano laughed, responding, “You’ve gotten old,  _ Zio! _ ”

Basil smiled ruefully, trying not to notice how stiff his joints were, then turned to introduce Erak, “Nephew, this is Erak Ingenson, my bodyguard. I wrote to you about him a few months ago, remember?”

Feliciano smiled and nodded, shaking Erak’s hand enthusiastically, “Ah, the  _ pazzo _ from the north! How do you do?”

Erak flashed a confused smile, shaking Feli’s hand, and said, “Good… I think. What’s a  _ patso? _ ”

Feliciano either didn’t hear him or ignored him, because immediately after the greeting he turned back to his uncle, saying, “Come on! This is no place to talk, I’ll bring you guys to my place!” With that, Feli took his uncle by the wrist and dragged the Byzantine through Venice, Erak bringing up the rear, confused but happy to be included.

Feliciano’s “place” turned out to be one of the most opulent piazzas in Venice, full of priceless art and sculpture that filled his home wall to wall. Erak gasped at the sight, and many could practically see the dollar signs in his eyes as he stared at all the invaluable loot. Hey, once a raider, always a raider.

Feliciano lead them to a sitting room, where a servant brought them wine and fruit, and the Venetian reclined on a sofa as Basil and Erak sat in front of him. “So,  _ Zio _ ,” Feli started, “What brings you to Venice?”

Basil let go of a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “As much as I love seeing you, Feli,” he began, “I need to speak to  _ Il Mercante Della Morte _ .”

Feliciano’s smile melted like ice over a fire.”Where did you hear that name?” he asked, and the nations shivered. Feliciano’s voice… it was so un-Feli-like. Feli was light, bouncy, happy, and ditzy. This voice, this voice was totally different. Intelligent, cold, calculating…  _ dangerous _ .

Basil’s eyes hardened in response to his nephew’s cool nature. “I am old,” he said, “Not decrepit. I have sources, especially in my own client state.”

Feliciano glared at him. “Fine, you want  _ The Merchant of Death? _ ” he asked, rising from the sofa and then bowing to Erak and Basil, “At your service,  _ signore. _ Let us bargain.”

Basil shifted in his seat as the Merchant sat down. Even his body language was different from Feliciano’s, less breezy and clueless, more purposeful and commanding, and subconsciously both Basil and Erak straightened their postures to meet his. “As you know, a new danger has arisen in the east,” Basil began, and the Merchant nodded.

“The Muslims,” he said sagely, “Frightening folk, they are. Encroaching upon the old holy territory. Why should I care?”

Basil’s eyes narrowed, “That ‘old holy territory’ you speak of belongs to  _ me. _ I want it back.”

The Merchant raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You know that Venice has no military to speak of, definitely not one that can go toe to toe with the Muslims. You’d do better with your own forces. Why have you come to me?”

“I’m not asking for the military of Venice,” Basil said, leaning forward as he prepared to make his final play, “I am asking for the military forces of  _ all Christendom. _ ”

The Merchant’s eyes widened. “That’s no easy feat,” he said after a pause, “What’s in it for me?”

At this point, Basil smirked. “That’s where you’ve made a grave mistake,  _ Mercante _ my friend,” he said triumphantly, “I’ve known about my nephew’s night life for decades. I know that you’ve put power into the hands of those that really shouldn’t have it, and that many a man has died to your assassins hiding in the rooftops of Venice because they made the wrong enemy. I know that the name  _ Il Mercante Della Morte _ sends any self-respecting European running scared, and I know the sway you hold over my brother’s heart.”

With the present nations, Clement gasped.

“You see,  _ Mercante _ , there’s one thing wrong with your little setup here,” Past Basil continued, currently on a roll, “ The Most Serene Republic of Venice, your base of operations, is the client state of the Byzantine Empire. If you do not accept my proposition, then at any time I wish, I could cut simply Venice’s funding, or, better yet, sail my navy across the Adriatic and burn this city and all its art, all its culture, and all its people to the ground. Or, rather, the water. You see, for once in your life,  _ Il Mercante _ , you are in  _ no position to bargain _ .”

The Merchant’s face was a scowling mask. The nations watched as he calculated the facts in his head, then, upon coming to a conclusion, scowled even more. “Fine,” the Merchant said, “You win. What do you need me to do?”

Basil smiled in triumph. “I need you to plant the idea of a holy war into Clement’s mind. Spend time with him, tell him how much of a shame you think it is that infidels have taken the Holy Land, tell him you’d love it if the family could be back together again, for one last hurrah, one last endeavor to save a divided Christendom. One last great crusade,” Basil said, and the Merchant’s eyes widened.

“You are telling me to make a holyman go to war?” he asked, “Do you realize the repercussions of this!? The death, the pain, the suffering you will bring to the Levant if you go through with this!?”

Basil stood up, his chair slamming to the floor behind him. “ _ YOU WILL DO AS I SAY! _ ” he roared at the Venetian, his rage consuming him, “Otherwise, I tell my brother that his son has fallen for a  _ barbarian. _ Better yet, I tell him that he’s fallen for one of his wards, that I entrusted to him, and that the very nature of your relationship is an affront to God!”

The Merchant stood up in a fury, and for a moment, the nations saw Feliciano again. “ _ THAT’S NOT TRUE!!” _ he screamed back, but in his heart he knew that Basil had won. He might be able to see past such things as blood or gender, but his father could not. Clement Vargas was as stuck in his ways as people came. If change ever came knocking on the door, Clement was the first one to throw the deadbolt. If he, the Personification of the Catholic Church, of Christendom as a whole, an institution currently dedicated to rooting out the nonconforming and punishing them for heresy ever found out that his son was a homosexual, Feliciano’s life would be over. He would be disowned, excommunicated, and banished. Best case scenario.

Basil waited until Feliciano sat back down, his head bowed in defeat. “Fine,” he whispered hoarsely, “Have it your way. Give me a few decades, then before you know it, Christianity will be at war.”

“Thank you,  _ Il Mercante _ ,” Basil said, his voice clipped and cold, “Erak! Time to go.”

Erak sighed as he pocketed a silver spoon, then turned to follow Basil out when Feliciano spoke up. “I hope you’re happy with yourself,  _ Zio _ ,” he muttered scornfully, and Basil barely glanced over his shoulder.

“Not yet,” he said cooly, “But I will be. Rome’s legacy belongs to  _ me. _ I will not have it stolen by some eastern barbarians on horseback that have not heard the Word of Christ, nor will I have it stolen by back-stabbing bastards like you Europeans. Once I have restored the Roman Empire to its former glory and I have proven that I, and I alone, rule the world, as my father did, then I will be happy with myself. Now get some rest, Nephew. You have a big day tomorrow.”

Basil and Erak left the piazza, leaving Feliciano in his dining room. With a shuddering sob, Feliciano Vargas, AKA  _ The Merchant of Death _ , resolved to betray his father, and bring destruction untold upon this world. All because he was afraid of what his uncle had become. Sighing, Feli went to his study and pulled out a charcoal sketched drawing of a teen in a black cloak and a tricorn hat, standing in a field of flowers. With the present nations, Gilbert gasped. He knew that boy, there was no doubt about it. The Holy Roman Empire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pazzo - madman  
> Zio - Uncle
> 
> That's right! Feliciano is a scary motherfucker, because Venice was the assassination hub of the world for a very, very long time. I chose "The Merchant of Death" because Venice was a massive hub of trade, commerce, wealth, culture, art, and, you guessed it, crime! If you think Feli didn't get into some dirty dealings with unsavory characters throughout the entirety of Venice's history, you have never played Assassin's Creed II.
> 
> Ah, I can hear the controversy now. Before the firestorm starts, you gotta remember, this is the 1100s, while the Catholic Church has been greatly improved since this time (I'm a Catholic myself), back then it was not made up of the most open-minded of individuals, especially when it came to the gay community. Just a cool little historical backdrop for a standard in-the-closet story, no strings attached. Also, the Crusades! If there isn't a more universally misunderstood time in history, I don't know what it is! Bottom line and bare bones, the crusaders weren't evil, neither were the Muslims, and the Jews are always just kinda caught in the middle. This chapter happens to be from the Christian perspective, as the European nations were Christian, so there is a bit of prejudice against Muslims, but only what was appropriate to the time. In short, don't kill the comment section, please.
> 
> However, I'm really excited about getting to the Crusades and their repercussions, especially since I get to introduce two new characters and complete what I call: The Crusader Trio!
> 
> Quick teaser for Friday:  
> 1\. Teutonic Knights  
> 2\. Knights Templar  
> 3\. Knights Hospitaller  
> 4\. deyarteB lisaB  
> 5\. Holy Rome (?)


	60. Dangerous Games

As the scene changed, Clement’s face settled into a stone mask, betraying no emotion whatsoever. Biting his lip in worry, Feliciano huddled closer into Ludwig’s arms, watching his father like a hawk. Ludwig, meanwhile, was staring blankly at the place where the drawing used to be. That boy looked _so familiar…_ And what was that speech Basil had made about Feliciano and a barbarian? Feliciano had told him about a first love once, when he was drunk, but Ludwig hadn’t asked for details. Now, he really wished he had, because _that boy was so_ **_familiar!_ ** 

The scene reilluminated, and the nations saw Feliciano walking through a peaceful garden in the heart of Rome, catching sight of his father speaking to a group of Cardinals, then taking a deep breath before stepping out to meet him.

“ _Padre!_ ” he called, waving to Clement as the Cardinals started walking away.

“Feliciano! _Salve!_ ” Clement said happily, taking up his staff to begin walking over, “How are you? How are things in Venice? I hear there is a bit of a crime problem there…”

Feliciano laughed a little ruefully. “We have it under control,” he lied, “I can handle my own vagrants. Honestly, it’s those foreigners I’m worried about.”

He said it in passing, as if it didn’t really matter, but Clement was his father, and fathers worried about their sons. “Foreigners? Who do you mean?” he asked carefully, a dangerous glint in the Christian’s eyes.

Feliciano acted like he didn’t notice, just as oblivious as ever, “Oh, you know, those Seljuk Turk people, to the east. They follow that new religion, what’s it called…” Feliciano snapped his fingers repeatedly, as if failing to think of the name.

“Islam,” Clement supplied, the glint growing into a shine of malice, “Infidels that they are. They believe that some Arabian moor heard the voice of God on a mountaintop, that Christ was not the Messiah!”

Feliciano acted horrified. “ _Really!?_ ” he gasped, “Well, that makes them all the more scary!”

“Scary? Scary how?” Clement pressed, worry lacing his voice, “Have they threatened you? Are they trying to move on Venice?”

“No, no, nothing like that… yet,” Feliciano murmured, “It’s just, I got a visit from Uncle-- from my uncle a little while ago.” With the present nations, Romulus’s heart shattered. Apparently, his sons hated each other so much that Clement didn’t even allow Basil’s _name_ to be spoken in his presence. Had he truly failed so much as a father?

“Ah… the heretic that calls himself my brother,” Clement mused, “Go on.”

“He says…” Feliciano started, “He’s not doing well, _Padre_ . He says that these _Islamists_ -”

“Muslims,” Clement corrected, “The word for the followers is Muslim.”

“Ah, my mistake,” Feliciano said sheepishly, “He says that these _Muslims_ have taken the Holy Land for themselves! To think, that they do not even know the value of the land they hold...”

Clement stared. The Christian Personification started tapping his foot, looking very troubled. “What of your uncle?” he asked, “Can he do nothing?”

“He can fight,” Feliciano assured him, “but he is far weaker than he was. I fear… I fear he does not have the strength to fend them off for long.”

Clement hummed musingly. “That is… troubling. I did not realize he had become so weakened,” he said eventually, “I suppose… if it would make you feel better, I _suppose_ I could speak to His Holiness. Perhaps we could muster some sort of… expeditionary force. Yes, that seems appropriate, an expeditionary force of Christian warriors to support your uncle’s forces.”

Feliciano smiled gratefully, “Thank you, _Padre,_ ” he said, giving his father a hug, “This means a lot, _veramente_.”

Clement smiled tiredly, “Anything for you, _filius meus._ ”

With that, Feliciano stood up and left his father in the gardens, feeling more guilty than ever. Then, as he stepped into the the halls of his father’s monastery, he yelped as three shapes blew past him. Looking down the hall, Feliciano smiled ruefully as he spotted a familiar shock of white hair, and those burning red eyes.

“Come on, Gabe, Denz!” the teenage Prussia yelled happily, “Hurry up! Brother Giovanni is almost done baking those sweet tarts!”

Behind him, two teens in simple monk’s tunics ran after him, laughing easily as they chased him. One was a black-haired boy with tanned bronze skin, jogging easily while the others ran full tilt. His smile was easy and lopsided, like he was just having fun living life, jogging after free snacks with his friends. The other was a tall, blonde haired boy with the warmest golden eyes, and his smile was more endeared than anything else. He seemed more straight-laced than his compatriots, but rather fond of the nonsense his friends got up to. Especially if it got him Brother Giovanni’s sweet tarts fresh from the oven.

With the present nations, Gilbert smiled fondly. “Ah, my old Crusader buddies!” he laughed, “We always got into so much trouble.”

“You mean you _dragged_ them into trouble,” Roderich corrected him.

Gilbert barely noticed him, “Ah, those were the days. We were the big three of the Crusades, me, the Teutonic Knights, Gabriel, the Knights Templar, and good old Denzel, the Knights Hospitaller. Together, the monks always called us the Crusader Trio, cause we were so awesome!”

Roderich snorted as Past Feliciano shook his head fondly, watching the Crusader Trio race by. Then, the Venetian personification walked through the halls, knocking on one of the doors of the private chambers.

“ _Willkommen_ ,” a tired voice said from inside, and Feliciano opened the door. 

Inside, hunched over a desk full of paperwork and unfinished projects, was a blond teen in a black cloak, his tricorn hat hanging off of a bedpost nearby. When he looked up, the nations stared at his sky blue eyes, and upon seeing Feliciano, his expression went from scowling to beaming. “Feli!” he said happily, rising from his desk, “It’s been so long! How have you been? How’s Venice?”

Feliciano smiled, “Same old, same old,” he sighed, “I just… I needed to see _Padre,_ and I couldn’t leave without seeing you.”

The other teen managed to look happier, if that was possible, and while Gilbert's good mood soured immediately, Ludwig stared at the teen. _Who was he, who was he, who was he, who was he!?_

The two sat down on the bed together, chatting easily and laughing, and after they fell silent, the cloaked teen went in for a kiss, which Feliciano didn’t resist in the slightest. After a passionate moment, they pulled apart and rested their foreheads on each other, and Feliciano whispered, “ _Te amo,_ Ludwig.”

And Ludwig’s mind broke. His knees buckled, and he stumbled to the ground, landing on his back, his chest heaving. The scene blurred away, or maybe it was just Ludwig’s vision blacking out, but the last thing he heard before he collapsed was an ethereal voice, like that of an angel, asking, “ _Gilbert…_ what did you _do?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost to the Crusades! and something even juicier!!!
> 
> Okay, so I remember what I said on Friday, but then I got hit with the Homework Hammer, so I decided: Fuck it. Regular chapter with standard juice, see y'all next week for one of the most notorious mysteries in all of Hetalia:
> 
> WHAT HAPPENED TO HOLY ROME


	61. A Challenge of Biblical Proportions

The nations huddled around each other as the scenes blurred together and started whirling into a storm, a phenomenon that only happened whenever one of the viewers was in distress. As it so happened, Germany seemed to fit the bill. Gilbert and Feliciano were crouched by his sides, trying to get him to wake up, but there was no response from Ludwig. The normally perfectly composed German was currently writhing and twitching on the ground, his eyes moving fitfully beneath their lids, groaning softly as whatever he was experiencing took hold of his mind. Clement knelt beside him, placing a hand on his forehead and closing his eyes.

“His mind and spirit are in turmoil,” Clement said gravely, “He is lost… confused.”

“Can’t you fix it!?” Feliciano cried shrilly, looking on the verge of tears. He  _ refused _ to lose his love again. Gilbert only stared down at his brother, his face a mask of shock.

“It is affecting the book,” Romulus said, looking around at the storm, “Something  _ big _ is happening. I think… I think it is trying to show us something.”

“Then we will see what it has to show us,” Arthur declared, and the nations stood by his side, waiting. And watching. Soon, the scene settled on an image of an elderly man standing upon a balcony, looking out over a sea of people. From the verandas and tiled roofs, they deduced it was Clermont, at the turn of the 1100s. By the old man’s side, they spotted Clement Vargas, leaning heavily on his staff, looking deeply troubled, and as the man took the podium, the crowd fell silent. There was only one man he could possibly be: His Holiness Pope Urban II. The man who declared the Crusades.

“Fellow Christians!” Urban cried, “For too long, our holy covenant with the Almighty God has been divided into two, our most holy church has been split by a terrible Schism that has already claimed thousands of lives of God’s children!”

The crowd roared assent, cheering at the Pope’s every word. As it died down, Urban continued. “Our neighbors to the East, those residing in the Byzantine Empire, the successor to the mighty throne of Rome, have come to calling themselves ‘Orthodox Christians’, and we ourselves have starting calling ourselves Catholics. But no longer, I say to you! For from the Far East, on the edge of what is known, a terrible race of brigands and infidels has arisen from the sands, placing the Byzantine Empire and all its people under assault! Worse still, these barbarians know not the Word of Christ, they know not the call of the Messiah! Their skin is a demonic, dirty brown, and their language, their clothing, their very customs are an affront to ours! Beyond a shadow of a doubt, these are challenges sent to us by Satan himself! I believe that these are the front-line troops of Hell, and they must be combated with all our power and might!” 

The crowd roared again, and only quieted to allow the Pope to speak more. “My friends, this is why I have called you here today!” Urban carried on, “These demons have claimed for themselves one of the most sacred places on God’s good earth: they have taken for themselves the holy city of Jerusalem! These demons, these heretics, that know nothing of the Word, are raping the holy site of Christ’s birth, at Bethlehem, and are reaping the treasures of the Kings Solomon and David! These treasures, these lands, they belong to  _ us! _ ” The crowd cheered again, and the Pope continued, “God is testing us, my friends! He is testing us, to see if we, his chosen people, can band together in times of such strife! He is calling upon us, Orthodox and Catholic alike, to rise up, and reclaim the Holy Land! We must reclaim the Land of God! We must reclaim the Birthplace of Christ! We must reclaim Christ’s Tomb! We, as the whole of Christendom, must  _ RECLAIM JERUSALEM! _ ” If it was possible, the crowd roared louder, and then, as they were in their most exuberant state, the Pope delivered the finishing line:

“My friends, I understand that our enemies are powerful! I understand that you are afraid!” he cried, raising his hands dramatically, “That is why I have consulted the Seraphim! I have spoken to the saints and angels! And this, my friends, is what they said unto me: ‘Let all who travel to the Holy Land and reclaim Jerusalem find immediate salvation in the Lord’! My friends, if you are willing to travel to the east, if you are willing to fight for your God, to defeat the frontline troops of the Devil, if you will partake in this Great Crusade, you will be granted  _ ETERNAL SALVATION!  _ God wills it! GOD WILLS IT!  _ DEUS VULT! _ ”

The crowd went wild. The Christian people were stirred to a fervor by the Pope’s words, and there was cheering and partying in the streets. This was the opportunity of a lifetime: God was telling them to travel to a far off place, away from their serf farms, and battle an enemy for Him, and in return they were guaranteed a free trip to Heaven? Done deal! Soon, word spread all across the Christian world, from Normandy to Norway, from England to Flanders, from France to the farthest reaches of the Holy Roman Empire, that His Holiness has called a Crusade, and if a man was willing to fight, he would be saved. And so, Christendom went to war.

The scene shimmered, and the nations watched as the image settled on a massive army on the march. They numbered in the thousands, all wearing armor and carrying weaponry, some on horses, but all marched beneath a banner emblazoned with an image of a red cross. The Crusaders were on the march.

The scene changed, and the nations watched as the Crusader Army arrived at Constantinople. Waiting at the Golden Gate, Basil Patricanus stood with his Varangian Guard. At the head of the army, Clement Vargas lead an entourage of Francis, Arthur, and Ludwig, the Holy Roman Empire. The army halted, and the two brothers stared at each other. From the crowd of the army, Feliciano caught his uncle’s eye and made a  _ do it! _ Gesture with his hands. Basil took a deep breath, then did the unexpected: he smiled.

“My Romans, rejoice!” he cried to the people behind him, “For Clement Vargas,  _ my brother _ , has returned! And with him, he has brought a mighty army with which we shall destroy those pesky Turks, once and for all!” He raised a chalice of wine, and the Byzantines cheered.

Clement stood in shock, then, he hobbled forward to meet his brother between their two groups. “I see the child is adjusting well,” Basil said first, motioning to Ludwig.

Clement nodded carefully, “We shall make a Christian out of him yet. He is doing very well.”

“Don’t you think ‘Holy Roman Empire’ is a bit pretentious, brother?” Basil asked, “Especially since  _ I _ am father’s heir?”

Clement turned his nose up with disdain, “You are no heir, brother. I would rather have someone as capable as Ludwig bear father’s name rather than a heretic like  _ you. _ ”

Basil’s eyes darkened. “I have given you a kind welcome thus far,  _ brother _ ,” he said cooly, “I suggest you do not breach the rules of hospitality, otherwise God may not smile upon you so as he has in the past few centuries.”

“As if He’s been smiling upon  _ you? _ ” Clement retorted, and Basil glowered at him.

“Keep your army ready, brother. We march at dawn,” Basil growled.

“What, no welcoming feast?” Clement asked, “My soldiers are hungry! Do you expect us to beg for scraps in the streets?”

Basil muttered something under his breath, then turned to his guards, “Erak! Prepare meals for the Crusaders, then  _ have them ready to march at dawn _ . If a single man is late, we leave him behind, understand?”

“Yes, boss!” Erak said, saluting, then turning to start gathering supplies.

The Sons of Rome took one last loathing look at each other, then stalked back to their respective peoples, cursing the other with every breath. 

“Well,” said Denzel Fortizza, the Personification of the Knights Hospitaller, as he stood next to Gilbert and Gabriel within the ranks of the Crusaders, “What a wonderful start this has been.”

Gilbert snorted a laugh, and Gabriel smiled thinly. He loved his friends, but he hated seeing Christians so divided. Were they not all Children of God? Why could they not all just get along?

The Crusaders started camping outside the Theodosian Walls, and Ludwig pitched his tent with help from Gilbert. “ _ Danke _ for the help, Gilbert,” Ludwig sighed triedly, sitting down heavily on his cot, “But it wasn’t necessary. I could have handled it--  _ cough, cough, cough! _ ”

Gilbert sat down beside him, “Is that sickness still with you? I thought you went to see the alchemist!”

“I  _ did! _ ” Ludwig protested, swatting Gilbert’s probing hands away, “It is just a cough,  _ bruder _ , I am fine!”

“No, you are not,” Gilbert said stubbornly, “You are sick. You have been sick since Charlemenge died, and that was centuries ago!”

“I can endure a little cough,” Ludwig insisted, just as stubborn as his brother, “Many of our siblings are counting on me.  _ Vater  _ Clement is relying on me to uphold Rome’s legacy. I must prove myself worthy of the name ‘Holy Rome’, otherwise no one will view me as legitimate.”

“This is about what Byzantium said to Clement, isn’t it?” Gilbert asked, “Ludwig, Basil’s a bitter old man grasping at straws. You can’t let what he says get to you!”

“And yet, Basil was able to get the entire Christian World fighting at his back,” Ludwig pointed out, “That is no easy feat. He is truly Rome’s heir, by birthright. If I am to prove myself worthy, I must prove myself better than him.”

Gilbert eyed him suspiciously. “Alright, if you say so,” he said finally, “Just know,  _ bruder _ , I am always at your side. I swear, if anything were to happen to you, I would move Heaven and Earth to keep you safe.”

“That sounds like a knight’s pledge, Gilbert,” Ludwig said, raising his eyebrow.

“Then I suppose I am a knight!” Gilbert s

aid haughtily, “Sir Gilbert of the Holy Roman Empire!”

Ludwig laughed, then started shooing his brother out of the tent. “Of course brother. No get to your own tent! I need to sleep off this cough before we march tomorrow.”

“Fine, fine,” Gilbert sighed fondly, “But only because you are sick!” He left the tent, and Ludwig rolled over to go to sleep, coughing while he dreamt. He really was sick.

The nations watched as the scene blurred, and they saw themselves battling against the Muslims, taking Jerusalem and establishing an occupation in the Holy Land, Orthodox and Catholic fighting side by side. The battles themselves weren’t all that important, it seemed, but then the scene settled on an image of Gabriel Desanges, the Personification of the Knights Templar, standing in the Holy City itself, atop Temple Mount, the fabled location of the Second Temple of Judaism, and the Temple of Solomon.

It was the dead of night, and the nations watched as Gabriel looked around him fervently, seemingly checking to ensure he wasn’t followed. “What is he doing?” Gilbert asked in confusion, “I don’t remember this at all. And it’s out of order… if this is during the First Crusade, none of us were Orders yet. What is he  _ doing  _ here?”

As if to answer, Gabriel took out a scroll from underneath his armor, checking it over. It seemed a rudimentary map of some kind, drawn long ago by some ancient hand, and Gabriel nodded, seemingly satisfied. “I come seeking the Wisdom of the Temple,” he said to the barren rock before him, for there were no temples here anymore, “I seek to prove my worthiness to the Lord.”

He waited. Nothing happened. Gabriel frowned, waiting some more, but then, as he was about to turn away, a scraggly bush beside him burst into flames. “My God!” Gabriel exclaimed, shielding his eyes from the sudden light, “Who is there!?”

_ Come forth, brave one, _ a disembodied voice echoed through the sands,  _ And receive the Wisdom. _

“Was that…?” Francis asked the present nations, leaving his question unsaid. They looked as shocked as him.

“The Voice of God?” Gabriel wondered aloud, then he hastily went down to his knees, “I am here, Lord! I am ready to serve!”

_ Come forth! _ the voice said again, and a boulder on Temple Mount shook as it rolled away from its place, revealing a passage underneath the earth. Gabriel’s eyes widened. 

“I understand, Lord,” he said eventually, his voice awed. He took a few wobbling steps toward the passageway, then descended the ancient stone stairs down into the earth. Above him, the boulder rumbled back into place. The burning bush went out, unharmed by the flames. It seemed as if nothing had happened there at all.

With the present nations, Judea stared in wonder. “That was not the Voice of God,” she said, and all the nations turned to her.

“Then who was it!?” Francis pressed, uncharacteristically anxious. He seemed far more interested in the fate of Gabriel than most. Everyone knew he survived the First Crusade to form the Knights Templar in the Third, so he couldn’t be in any danger. What was Francis so worried about?

“That was…” Judea trailed off, still lost in her own head, trying to form a cohesive thought after such a blast from the past, “That was one of my greatest leaders. That was the voice of King Solomon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is turning out to be a sort of mini-arc, so just bear with me, folks. I have some lore to establish!
> 
> *Mandatory Disclaimer* I'm not trying to convert anyone. Just telling a story that involves some Judeo-Christian mythology because it's cool and affected history greatly. Don't blow up my comment section. *Disclaimer over*
> 
> Also, hope you guys are excited about that scene on Temple Mount, because hoo boy... Gabriel finds some stuff. Lots of stuff.


	62. Cursed With Knowledge

The nations stared at Judea as the scene shimmered, and behind them all, Gilbert gasped. Suddenly, he knew what this was. And he didn’t like it one bit.

The nations turned to watch as the scene illuminated on Gabriel traversing a dark passageway, carrying a crude torch made from pitch and a strong root he’s found in the cave walls. “Hello?” the Templar called into the darkness, reaching the bottom of the stairs, “Is anyone there?”

“ _ Gabriel Desanges, _ ” the voice of King Solomon boomed through the stone chamber, echoing off the walls and fading away into the dark.

“G-God?” Gabriel asked fearfully, his voice wobbling. Subconsciously, he took a step backward.

Solomon chuckled, “ _ No, Child, I am no God. _ ”

Gabriel drew his sword, whispering fearfully, “Then you are the Devil!”

Solomon chuckled again, and a white mist drifted through the inky darkness, coalescing into the smoky form of a man with curly hair and beard, wearing a crown fashioned from a simple gold band around his head. He wore flowing, misty robes like those of the ancient Hebrews, and in his eyes was a great sorrow, greater than any of them could ever comprehend. “ _ Shalom _ , Gabriel Desanges,” Solomon said, “I am King Solomon.”

Gabriel stared at the apparition before him. “My God…” he breathed, “But, you  _ died _ hundreds of years ago! The Bible says it so!”

Solomon inclined his head. “Death is not the end in our culture, Christian,” he said sagely, “Nor is it in many others. Just as Charon ferries souls across the Styx, just as the Valkyries recruit fallen warriors for Valhalla, just as St. Peter keeps the gates of Heaven, I am tasked with guarding the wisdom of my temple, and guiding those who are worthy to it.”

“Your temple?” Gabriel asked again, his eyes widening, “Then-!”

“Yes, child,” Solomon said with a hint of amusement, “This is the Temple of Solomon. What is left of it, anyway.”

“I don’t believe it!” Gabriel laughed, “I have found the Temple of Solomon! Surely, there must be treasures untold here! Artifacts, lost wisdom! Perhaps the Menorah of the Temple, the Ark of the Covenant, the Holy Grail!”

Solomon held up a hand to quell the flow of questions from the young Templar. “The Menorah of the Temple has been lost for centuries,” he said, “And the Ark of the Covenant does not wait here, nor does the Holy Grail. They do not wait for you, but for a great adventurer, to come many years after you.”

“Who? Who is this adventurer?” Gabriel pressed.

“He will be a man of simple disposition, a wise scholar,” Solomon revealed, “And he will be armed with nothing but his wits and a bullwhip. But he is not due for another 800 years. All I have to offer you, young kight, is  _ knowledge _ .”

As Solomon said the word, torches lit up a long hallway behind him, as if by magic, and Gabriel gasped. The hall was littered with bodies. Ancient skeletons, all having met some gruesome form of death, from arrows to crushing rocks and even what looked like fire. “Dear God,” Gabriel breathed, “Who are they?”

Solomon turned away, drifting toward the hall of skeletons. “The unworthy,” he said simply.

Gabriel shivered. He looked up at Solomon, “Then what must I do to prove myself unlike them, O Wise King?”

Solomon did not turn to him. “Follow me,” he said, “And the Temple will decide if you are worthy.”

Obeying, Gabriel took a shaking step forward. Then another, and another, and another, until he was following the ancient king in a soft stride. They passed a skeleton in Roman battle armor, and Gabriel stared at it. “Who is that?” he asked, and Solomon responded.

“The Roman emperor Titus,” he said, “He came here in his later years to try to discover the Temple’s secrets. He was unsuccessful.”

“And him?” Gabriel asked, gesturing to a body propped up against a wall, dressed in a plated copper armor and clutching feebly at a scimitar.

“Her,” Solomon corrected, “She was the Persian Empire. A mighty warrior in her time, but ultimately bested by the Greeks. She came here to try to discover the knowledge to defeat them, but she too was unworthy.”

Gabriel looked at a prone form with a mothballed turban on its head, its once brilliant garb faded and dulled. Gold rings still clung to its skeletal fingers. “Mali, the last great bearer of the Flame of Africa. After the fall of his empire, he came here seeking guidance. Instead, he found death,” Solomon said.

Finally, Gabriel gasped as he saw the last stand of a warrior: an armored skeleton still held his rusted pike, a conical helmet on his head. His ovular shield held a faded and scratched depiction of the Sun of Vergina, and there were a dozen swords and arrows piercing his body. He was kneeling, his skeletal jaw unhinged in an eternal scream of pain… or rage. “And who is he?” Gabriel asked fearfully.

Solomon’s already sorrowful eyes seemed to grow deeper. “Macedon,” he said, “He was powerful. Perhaps more powerful than Rome. Under the leadership of Alexander the Great, his empire stretched from his homeland in Greece to India. After his great leader died, he lost everything. He came here under the guise of seeking redemption. All he sought was power. He thought he could outsmart the Temple… he died of his own hubris.”

Gabriel shivered again, then continued following Solomon. “Why are you here, knight?” Solomon asked as they went farther down the corridor, passing more and more skeletons.

Gabriel jumped, then thought for a moment. “I suppose… to discover what I can. To see if I can preserve any part of this place and bring it into the world, on display for the interpretation of other theologians. I wish to bring the secrets of this place to light, so that the world may examine them.”

Solomon nodded, “So you seek knowledge. Good. What of you, Denzel?”

The nations did a double-take. Where Gabriel had been following Solomon, Denzel now stood, his red tunic a stark contrast to Gabirel’s white. “What…?” Arthur wondered aloud, but no one could provide an explanation.

Denzel seemed to be thinking as well. “I suppose I’m not down here for any reason,” he sighed, “I just want this war to end. I want pilgrims, whether they be Christian, Jew, Muslim, Catholic, Orthodox, or whatever, to be able to come to this place if they want. I want people to be safe, regardless of whatever dangers lay outside. I suppose… I suppose that I hope I can find something in this place that will help me keep people safe.”

Solomon nodded, “You seek safety. And you, Gilbert?”

Once again, the Crusaders swapped out. Now, a young Gilbert was the one following King Solomon, pondering his motivations. “I have a brother, you see,” Gilbert began, “He’s not well. But he’s everything to me! If I lost him, if he succumbs to this sickness, then I am afraid of what will become of our family. I swore to protect him, to move Heaven and Earth for him! I guess, what I am looking for is to be able to protect him.”

“Then you seek strength,” Solomon concluded, “Interesting…”

The pair, Solomon and whichever Crusader the book felt like showing, reached a central room. On an altar in the middle of the room sat a simple stone cup, the Cup of a Carpenter.

“Is that-?” Gabriel breathed, but Solomon cut him off.

“Not the Holy Grail,” he said, “That, my dear Crusader, is  _ Elijah’s Cup _ . The Cup of the Stranger. The Cup of the Visitor. Drink from it, and it will give you the knowledge that you seek. But be warned: knowledge is impartial. You may not like what you discover.”

The three Crusaders looked determinedly at the altar, and Elijah’s Cup. The first to step forward was Denzel, who took a long draft from whatever liquid was inside it. He replaced the cup on the altar, then stared off into the distance. “A hospital… an island… a fortress… Yes, yes, I see now. I see…” he said dreamily, as if in a trance.

“Congratulations, Denzel Fortizza, you have seen your destiny,” Solomon said, drawing his sword and laying it on the knight’s shoulders, one at a time, “I dub thee Great Healer, I dub thee Great Defender. I dub thee Hospitaller.”

Denzel nodded in determination, then disappeared from the room. Gabriel the took the next drink from Elijah’s Cup, and after he replaced it, a single tear rolled down his cheek. “My God…” he breathed, “ _ Gilbert. _ What did you  _ do? _ ” With the present nations, Ludwig stirred, lolling his head to one side fitfully.

“Congratulations, Gabriel Desanges,” Solomon said, laying his blade over Gabriel’s shoulders as he had Denzel’s, “You have seen the future. I dub thee Great Seer, I dub thee Great Temple-Builder. I dub thee Templar.”

Gabriel nodded, then vanished, still looking distraught. Finally, Gilbert drank from Elijah’s Cup> He replaced it, then fell to his knees. “Oh,  _ Gott, nein… _ ” he whispered brokenly, “Anything but that…”

“Congratulations, Gilbert Beilschmidt, you have seen the strength of unity,” Solomon said, his voice echoing through his buried temple as he knighted Gilbert like the others, “I dub thee Great Warrior, I dub thee Great Conqueror. I dub thee Teuton.”

Gilbert bowed his head, then disappeared like the rest. The image lingered on Solomon for a while, as he observed the stillness of his dark temple. “I know you will hear me, o nations,” he said, and the nations jumped, “And I say this unto you: do not judge them too harshly. For they shaped the cores of your modern world. And know this: I have seen the future. A great and terrible evil will soon come to your world, something far, far beyond even my comprehension. If you are to survive… you must be unified. You must know each other. You must have  **knowledge.** ” Solomon’s final word echoed through the caverns, and all at once, his apparition disappeared, and the torches were extinguished, leaving the temple to be swallowed by the blackness once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you ask, yes. yes that was an Indiana Jones reference. And yes, that is epic foreshadowing for this fic's sequels.
> 
> have fun theorizing what each Crusader saw~!


	63. Fortresses

The nations stood in silence as King Solomon and his temple disappeared. “Well…” Alan said ruefully, ”that wasn’t ominous at _ all _ .”

Pennsylvania promptly whacked him upside the head. Then, before any of them could ponder more on Solomon’s last words to them, the scene shimmered to life once more. Now, the nations saw an army of Crusaders, thousands strong, sieging a great walled city that rested on the shore of a lake. The Battle of Nicea. 

They watched as younger versions of Francis, Gilbert, Ludwig, Denzel, Gabriel, Clement and even Basil lead their armies against the Turkish forces, assaulting the walls again and again. However, the Turks held fast, and the walls of Nicea continued to stand. The Crusaders were a mighty force, especially when backed by the Byzantine Navy, but it seemed Nicea was a stubborn stronghold of Muslim power. Frustrated, Clement called a war council in his tent, made up of all his fellow personifications. As they all arrived, the meeting began, but strangely, Basil was noticeably absent. “This is a bad situation,” Gabriel said tersely, “If we do not break the walls of Nicea soon and capture its supplies, the soldiers will begin to starve.”

“Thank you, Gabriel, for stating the obvious,” Denzel said scathingly, “Truly, the mind of our generation, gentlemen.”

Gabriel bristled, beginning to rise, but Ludwig grabbed him by the arm and dragged him back into his seat. “Enough,” the German sighed, “We won’t solve this by fighting amongst ourselves! We need ideas, and soon.”

Francis shifted in his seat, “I don’t see what we  _ can _ do, at this point. We’ve had Nicea under siege for days now, and all the while we hadn’t realized they’d been receiving supplies from that port of theirs. Now that Basil’s fleet has finally blocked it off, they’re finally under stress, but I worry that our soldiers will break before they do.”

The Crusaders sat in an uncomfortable silence. The nations took note of the lack of tension between the Crusader Trio, and concluded that this must be before they’d received their visions. It seemed the book was doubling back to tell the story of the First Crusade, though none could quite discern why. Finally, Past Clement took a deep breath, and said, “Gentlemen, I believe we must consider an assault on Nicea--”

Just then, a messenger burst into the tent. “My lords!” the man cried falling to one knee, “It is a miracle! You must come and see for yourselves!”

The Crusaders stared at each other, then turned back to the messenger. “What is it?” Gilbert asked.

The messenger looked overjoyed, saying, “Nicea has been conquered! The Byzantines took the walls overnight, with almost no resistance! It is a miracle! God is smiling upon our cause!”

Clement frowned, muttering, “Perhaps…” and leading his council outside. Sure enough, leaning lazily on the ramparts of Nicea, there stood Basil C Patricanus, an arrogant smirk plastered all over his smug face.

“What’s the matter,  _ brother? _ ” he asked tauntingly, “One measly little city too tough for your big, bad Crusaders?”

Clement looked shocked and furious. “Wh- I don-  _ HOW!? _ ” Clement blustered, turning purple in the face as he watched Byzantine guards begin to man the ramparts.

Basil only smiled smugly at him, then winked, saying, “Trade secret!” The scene shimmered away, and it illuminated on a scene of Nicea at night, out on the docks. Stepping off a ship, Basil looked around fervently, holding a larch pouch of silver and gold in his hand. Out from the shadows stepped a tall, imposing man with a curved sword at his hip, wearing the uniform of a Turk. With the present nations, Turkey gasped.

“What? Who is that!?” Arthur asked Sadik quickly, “Do you know him?” 

“Of course I know him!” Turkey said indignantly, “ _That_ is Aadil Ibn L’Amad! The Personification of the Islamic Caliphate, nay, the Islamic _World!_ _My father!_ ”

The nations watched as Basil handed Aadil the pouch of coins, and the Muslim smiled thinly before ordering his troops to evacuate the city. “A pleasure doing business with you, Byzantine,” Aadil said cordially, “Though understand that such an agreement will only bring relations so far. If Crusaders march any further into Turkish territory, I will summon the armies of the Sultan.”

Basil smiled coldly in return, “I wouldn't have it any other way, my friend. Now please, be on your way. I have a city to conquer… in the Name of God.”

With the present nations, Clement looked livid. “So  _ that’s  _ how you did it,” he said viciously to his brother, “You made a deal with our  _ enemies! _ Just so you could show me up!”

Basil stared back in response, his face a mask of pride and challenge, but the scene changed before they could accuse each other of more. Now, a true battle was raging between the Crusaders and the armies of the Seljuk Sultan. As Islam and Christianity collided around them, the nations watched as the Crusaders fought a brutal, bloody battle outside Dorylaeum. Soon, despite the heavy European armor, the superior Muslim cavalry and bowmanship began to show through, and the Crusader line started to crack.

Just then, the scene focused in on Denzel Fortizza as the young knight stumbled into a clearing, blood dripping from a cut above his eye and a nasty bruise forming on his cheek. As Denzel turned to return to the fight, he noticed something in the corner of the battlefield: the townspeople. They must have been driven from their homes by the fighting, and now somehow found themselves in the middle of it. Denzels’ chest burned with fury. These were but simple people, living their lives in peace. They did not deserve this. “CRUSADERS!” Denzel bellowed, “FORM UP, ON ME! PROTECT THE CIVILIANS!” 

With that, Denzel ran to the group of townspeople, a small army following him, and began to form a shield wall. Remarkably, it worked. The Crusaders constructed a nigh impregnable shield wall around the townspeople, and Denzel laughed in elation as he saw Gabriel and Gilbert at his side, their contingents of knights completing the circle. “STAND FIRM!” Denzel cried, and the true test began. For hours, the Crusaders stood in the baking sun, keeping up a constant wall as endless arrows descended on them from the Muslim armies. Men died, staggered, fell, but the line held firm, just like that, for hours on end. Together, the Crusader Trio stood stauntly between the war and the people, keeping them safe at all costs, and across the field, a young Turk with a double curl in his jet black hair lifted his visor to stare in awe of them. Young Sadik Adnan was amazed at their resolve, especially Denzel, the apparent leader. Mentally, he reminded himself to remember that man, should he ever meet such an honorable foe in combat again.

Finally, Francis and Ludwig arrived to rout the Muslim forces and relieve the shield wall, but the Crusaders had done their deed. Only five of the townspeople had died. They had kept them safe. Denzel beamed with pride as Clement gave him a special cross design to paint on his shield, white with a red background, and commended him for his bravery. In the other camp, Sadik found himself discussing the young Crusader with his father, who agreed he must have been an honorable warrior. 

Soon, though, the scene shimmered once again, and upon seeing the location of the next memory, the nations found it hard to say anything redeeming about the Crusades. For this was the Assault of Jerusalem, the bloodiest, most brutal, and most meaningless battle in human history.


	64. I Didn't Know

The nations watched as the army of Crusaders reached the holy walls of Jerusalem. Immediately, some fell to their knees, performing the Sign of the Cross, others crying “ _ Deus Vult! _ ”, and still yet others wept with joy. Several Crusader armies had abandoned along the way, some overambitious princes and warlords claiming nigh defenseless duchies for themselves as new sovereign lands. After witnessing the bumbling progress of their hapless and disorganised allies, the mighty Byzantine Army had simply turned back toward Constantinople, Basil swearing up and down that the Crusade was a lost cause. Nevertheless they persisted. The road had been long, and the journey plagued by strife and famine, many had seen brothers, cousins, fathers, sons fall to Muslim or even other Christian blades, but now it would all soon be over. If they could only take the Holy City, their suffering would come to a end. 

Clement’s jaw set into a determined line. “Gather the troops for an assault, and begin construction on siege towers from the timbers of the Genoese supply ships,” he ordered, thrusting  _ Missionis _ outward in front of him, “As soon as we are able, we will assault Jerusalem and bring this grand crusade to a glorious and triumphant end! Stand fast, my Crusaders! As long as we remain strong, as long as we remain vigilant, as long as we keep faith in the Lord our God, we will prevail! We will wrest from the barbarous hands of these Muslims our most holy Jerusalem, the place of Christ’s Final Judgement, and restore the paths of those pilgrims humble and devoted enough to journey here! We will reclaim Jerusalem for Christ, as God intended! Strike hard, Crusaders, show no mercy, and we shall prevail! Christianity shall prevail!  _ Deus Vult! _ ” The Crusaders cheered, and the scene shimmered to show the prepared siege engines. Two mighty siege towers stood tall above the sand as the walls of Jerusalem taunted the Crusaders from afar. 

Within the city, the scene settled on Aadil Ibn L’Amad, the Muslim Personification, standing atop the battlements, Seljuk and Fatimid troops rushing to prepare the rigid defense of the Holy City. “We will hold this place,” he said solemnly to those surrounding him, “These ‘Crusaders’, they know nothing of the Quran! These followers of the prophet Jesus of Nazareth, they are radicals! They believe he was the Son of Allah himself! Such insolence, such arrogance! They are stuck in their ways, and refuse to accept the words of the Prophet Muhammad! They are living in the past, rigid and stuck in their ways, and so we must keep this place from them! We must keep this most holy city, the famous Jerusalem, free from the bloodied, barbarous hands of these Christians, lest they taint her with their savagery! Raise the alarms, my Muslims! Prepare your defenses! Claim your weapons! We will hold! Islam will hold!  _ Allah Akbar! _ ” The Muslim defenders roared, raising their curved scimitars and wicked blades, rallying to defend the Holy City to their last breath.

The nations were shaken by how similar the two speeches were. Both were men asking for blind faith from their followers, promises that God would grant them eternal salvation if they fought, both promising ends to their labors, and both using battle cries that had lost so much meaning over the centuries. Then the scene illuminated upon a woman kneeling in a synagogue, praying her hardest, her fellow Jews joining her. “Lord God,” Adinah pleaded, “You have shown us kindness thus far under the reign of the Muslim. Please, do not let this kindness end… keep us safe. We are Your Chosen People, thus we beseech You… keep us safe.  _ Amen _ .” As the prayers ended, a single tear rolled down Adinah’s cheek. She had seen too much war, been on the losing end of too many conflicts. In her heart of hearts, she knew that there was no way the Jews would escape the coming conflict unscathed. They never did. Sorrowfully, she remembered the Jewish Rebellion against the Romans, a five year long war for independence that had ended in utter failure. She remembered the followers of Josephus killing each other rather than submit to Roman slavery. She remembered the legions of Vespasian marching into Jerusalem, burning their most sacred Temple to the ground with dozens of Jewish warriors trapped inside. She remembered the fear, the soul crushing fear, that Judaism would die with the Temple, but enough Jews lived outside the Holy City to keep the faith alive. Adinah had had enough of simply  _ staying alive _ . She wanted to  _ live _ .

Standing up, the nations watched as Adinah Molowitz, the Personification of Judaism, turned from her prayers and steeled her nerves. If she did not take action, no one would, and Jews would be slaughtered like helpless cattle once more. As she stepped out of the synagogue, she drew her swords and began to walk to the walls of Jerusalem.

Then, as it always would and always had, war found its way to the Holy City, and battle broke out on the walls of Jerusalem. One of the Crusader siege towers was burnt to the ground, but the other made contact with the wall, and soon Crusader after Crusader fell upon the Muslims, battling across the wall in a desperate, bloody horde. The nations saw flashed of familiar faces, Francis thrusting his rapier through the chink in a Muslim’s armor, Gabriel slashing through someone’s ribcage with his short sword, Denzel catching a scimitar on his shield, Gilbert rushing forward along the wall, broadsword in hand, Ludwig rallying the Crusaders onward, even Clement bringing his staff crashing down onto Muslim skulls. The walls were soon soaked in blood, and the Crusaders made their way down into the city. The slaughter was indiscriminate. The rabid, hungry Crusaders had been marching too long, been on the brink of death too many times, and now they were feral men, blinded by faith, ready to kill or be killed for the promise of an end to it all. The Muslims defended best they could, but even the mighty armies of the Sultan were no match for such unbridled fervor.

The scene saw Adinah, Aadil, and Clement meet in a crossroads, all three with their weapons drawn. Clement with his staff, Adinah with her blades, and Aadil held a wicked scimitar with a richly adorned gold hilt. “And so begins the true quarrel of God’s Children,” Adinah sighed sadly, and the three ran at each other, battle cries roaring from their throats. Fire consumed Clement’s body, and suddenly his injury righted itself, for he was in perfect condition, blocking strikes and delivering some of his own. Many recognized how his eyes burned with the Flame of Europa, and figured the ethereal Flame must have been augmenting his broken body. Adinah fought with the same serpentine style she had used against Romulus, spinning and twirling with all the grace one could have while fighting for their lives. Aadil had a very vigorous and aggressive style, and the nations started in surprise as they saw his eyes begin to glow. The sun seemed to beat down harder, and the loose sand beneath them shifted and twirled with power. Outside the walls, a mighty sandstorm began to rise around the Holy City, and the nations gasped as they realized what this must mean. There were only a very,  _ very _ select group of nations that could affect the weather like that. Aadil Ibn L’Amad must have been the bearer of the Flame of Arabia.

The battle raged on, and soon Jerusalem was a field of blood, sand, and fire. The scene illuminated on Denzel running through the streets, gasping for breath as he watched Christian, Jew, and Muslim alike being slaughtered before his eyes. This wasn’t what he had wanted at all. He’d wanted peace! Safety! This was… this was… Denzel’s foot slipped in something slippery and he yelped as he was thrown to the ground on his back. Groaning in pain, he raised a hand to his head to cradle a concussion, then gasped in horror. His hand was soaked in blood. He’s slipped in blood. He was laying in a puddle of blood. Standing up quickly, Denzel drew his sword panickedly, scanning the streets, then his eyes widened. A river of human blood ran through the streets of Jerusalem, ankle deep in some places, and Denzel’s blade dropped to the bloodied cobbles. He fell to his knees, looking at the blood on his hands. “No…” he whispered, then he began running through the streets, crying out to the different battles, shouting, “STOP! ENOUGH! WE’VE DONE ENOUGH!! STOP IT! CAN’T YOU SEE WERE ARE DESECRATING THIS PLACE? STOP THIS SENSELESS KILLING!!  _ STOP IT!!! _ ”

Despite Denzel’s desperate pleas, the slaughter carried on for two whole days. For two days, the Abrahamic Faiths clashed in an epic struggle that claimed the lives and spilled the blood of Jews, Christians, and Muslims alike. It did not stop till all the Muslims had either fled or been killed, and even then some went on to kill some of the cowering, defenseless Jews sheltering in the synagogues and mosques. Finally, though, order was restored in Jerusalem, and the Crusaders began organizing a new kingdom there. As the slaughter halted, Denzel and Gilbert stood in the blood soaked streets, looking out at the carnage. “Well, glad that’s over,” Gilbert said ruefully, wiping his sword of day old blood, “Now we can focus on what we came here for!”

Denzel looked lost, staring out at the streets where bodies still lay unburied. “So many…” he whispered brokenly.

“Denz? Hello? You there, Denz?” Gilbert questioned, waving his hand in front of the Hospitaller’s face.

Denzel started, then looked at his friend. His friend who had helped this senseless slaughter, his friend who had acted like the thousands of deaths that had just taken place were a mere obstacle. “And what goal was that?” he asked carefully.

Gilbert rolled his eyes, “Protecting the Christian pilgrims coming here,  _ duh! _ Were you even paying attention?”

“Pilgrims?” Denzel asked, his voice small and pitiful, “Is that what we came here as? I didn’t know.” He still didn’t meet Gilbert’s eyes.

After a moment, Gilbert shook his head dismissively and began to walk away. “I’m gonna go find Gabe. Come find us when you’re ready, eh, Denz?”

Denzel nodded absentmindedly, then he looked down at a trio of bodies. A man, a woman, and a child. The man wore a turban, the woman a hijab. The child was in swaddling clothes. Denzel dropped to his knees once more in the broken, bloody streets of Jerusalem, a city he’d travelled so far to conquer, a place where he’d killed so many, and brokenly whispered to the thousand dead: “I didn’t know…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reality: Dude, you were supposed to post a chapter on Friday, then you pushed it to yesterday and ignored it more--
> 
> Me, desperately smothering Reality with a pillow: Shh, shh, it's Friday, shh.
> 
> Yeah, sorry, my weekend was crazy and I just wanted to sleep yesterday. Fear not, Monday should be regular!


	65. Crumbling Dominion

The nations watched as Jerusalem shimmered away, guilt weighing like a cold stone in their hearts. What came next was, perhaps, even worse.

They saw the rest of the Crusades, the prolonged bloodshed, the raging battles, the meaningless slaughter, and the rise and fall of great leaders like Frederick Barbarossa, Philip Augustus, and Richard the Lionheart. Crusader states were formed in the Holy Land, and the nations watched as the Knights Templar began building churches, roads, and banks, all under Gabriel’s guiding hand. They saw dozens of civilian pilgrims find refuge in the brave warriors of the Teutonic Knights, who helped them on their long journeys. Finally, they saw the first hospitals arise from the sand, treating Jew, Christian, and Muslim alike, and in the thick of it all was Denzel, rushing around to each of the wounded personally, his sword gathering dust in favor of a mortar and pestle. 

They watched Crusading armies come and go, becoming less and less successful each time, until many were driven from the Levant by encroaching Turkish forces. The Pope called for a Fourth Crusade, and warriors of the Holy Roman Empire answered the call. They began the long march from Vienna to Jerusalem, and after months of hardship, reached Constantinople, the shining jewel of the Byzantine Empire. And then calamity struck.

The scene settled on Basil resting on the walls of his city, as he had all those centuries ago when they’d told him his father was dead. He leaned over the wall and stretched his aching back, trying to work out all the kinks in his bones, but age was taking its toll. Silently, he frowned to himself a little. He had once had almost all the Meditteranean as his domain, from France to Anatolia. Now, though, all he had remaining to him was Greece, the Balkans, and the Bosphorus Strait. He had even lost his native Anatolia to the Turks, and it seemed his empire was only going to grow smaller. Luckily, he still held Constantinople, his crown jewel. Then he remembered the cruel laughter, the rasping voice,  _ You will lose everything but a single city, and even that shall be destroyed! _

Basil shivered. He wouldn’t think about that, he  _ couldn’t! _ Folkert had been dying, hallucinating, there was no way anyone could take this away from him! So what if he wasn’t as big as he used to be? So what if he was getting on in years? He absolutely, under no circumstances was going to  _ die _ . Hell, he’d just welcomed another army of Crusaders to help him reconquer all his lost territory, even if it was lead by that pretentious upstart Holy Rome. Basil had to admit, he hadn’t found anything he could truly hate about Ludwig, which was unbearably frustrating. The boy was polite, kind, caring, determined, and hard-working, and really, he hadn’t even chosen the name ‘Holy Roman Empire’ for himself,  _ Clement _ had done that, but still… Basil felt threatened by the young German.  _ He _ was Rome’s heir, and he was tired of people trying to wrest that title from him.

But, you can’t go to war with someone over a name, especially when they’re already you ally. Then, bells began to ring in the streets of Constantinople, and Basil heard screaming. Grabbing his sword and shield, he raced down the walls, finding the nearest guard post. “You there, soldier!” he cried, “What is happening? Is there a fire?”

The guard looked shellshocked. “No, milord, we are under attack!” he said despondently.

“Attack?” Basil cried exasperatedly, “Who in the hell is attacking  _ us?! _ ”

The guard swallowed hard, “We are, sir.”

Basil’s eyes darkened. The Crusaders had turned on him. He had welcomed them into his city and they had  _ turned on him _ . Basil hopped over the ramparts and ran into the streets, and sure enough, raised high over the ever growing pile of Byzantine bodies, a yellow banner with the crude, black image of a double-headed eagle waved in the wind, German mercenaries slaughtering beneath it. Basil roared with rage, leaping at them and killing them with his sword, then racing through his capital, trying to save everyone he could. He became acutely aware of a sharp, burning pain in his chest, and grunted with the effort of bringing his sword down on a Crusader’s helmet. The attacks were starting to get to him, his body was beginning to reflect the strife of the land. Constantinople was his capital, his heart, so when it was attacked, so was his physical, literal  _ heart _ . If this went on, even a nation could very well die. 

Basil spotted Erak, Matthias, and Berwald in the din, commanding a troupe of Varangians against the invaders, but he hadn’t the time to reach them; he needed to find the boy. Basil ran through the streets more and more, killing all the Germans he came across, until he reached the steps of his beloved Hagia Sophia. 

He rushed inside, covered in German blood, and sure enough, there he was: Ludwig Beilschmidt, Personification of the Holy Roman Empire, awaiting him calmly in his own cathedral, in his own  _ seat of power! _ Basil approached the boy king slowly, nothing short of seething, unadulterated rage boiling beneath his skin. “Ludwig!” Basil snapped, “Call off your men! They are ransacking my capital!”

Ludwig tilted his head questioningly, “Ransacking? Why, whatever do you mean, Basil? My armies received no orders to attack your men.”

“Don’t you  _ DARE _ bullshit me!” Basil spat, waving his sword in the German’s face, “Call them  _ OFF! _ ”

Ludwig’s icy blue eyes hardened. “ _ Nein _ ,” he said simply, and Basil exploded. He ran at the boy, sword in hand, but Ludwig reacted like lightning. He slashed upward with his quicker, lighter sword and sent Basil’s clumsy cavalry blade spinning away. Then, before Basil could run to retrieve his fallen weapon, Ludwig pressed the attack, forcing the Byzantine to throw up his shield and block until an opening arose. Luckily, Basil was just as accomplished at fighting only with his shield, as he managed to knock Ludwig off-balance with a quick shoulder charge, allowing him to grab his sword off the ground. Circling each other for a moment, they then resumed the battle, this time taking it outside the cathedral.

Around them, Constantinople burned, and the Byzantines screamed and ran for their lives. It seemed that the Heirs of Rome were no match for these barbarian invaders. German Crusaders began to peter out with the killing and plundering, ready to take what they had and flee, but still Ludwig and Basil fought on. Soon, Ludwig screamed a warcry as he charged Basil into a nearby column, then stared as the column collapsed on top of the aged empire. 

After the dust settled, Ludwig knelt to where Basil had been trapped underneath the piles of stone. “I’m sorry it came to this, Basil, truly, I am,” Ludwig said solemnly, “But  _ I _ am Rome’s true heir now. I have proven it by beating you here and now. Goodbye, Basilius Constantinus Patricanus. This is the last time we will see each other.” Basil gurgled something intelligable through all the blood in his mouth, and drifted in and out of conciousness as the Germans slowly, ever so slowly, began to abandon their pillaging of his capital.

Then, in the hazy fog of his vision, Basil’s eyes fell upon a young man in white and green clothes, with a huge curl of hair sticking off from his face. “F-Feliciano…” Basil croaked brokenly, shakingly extending his free hand to his nephew, “Help me…”

Feliciano turned to him, as if just noticing him. In a few short strides, he’d made it to his uncle’s side, then considered him for a moment. “No,” he said finally.

Basil stared at him, and shivered as the Merchant of Death stared back. “You talked the talk, uncle, and you walked the walk. But in the end, all the dangerous games you played came back to bite you. Now, thanks to all the trade routes the Crusades have opened up to us, none of the European powers need you anymore. We don’t need you for spices, for silks, for crafts,  _ nothing! _ Because now we can make it all ourselves with the access to the Levantine Coast and Black Sea markets. Face it,  _ uncle _ . You played the game, and you  _ lost _ . Now you live with the consequences.” With that, the Merchant walked away, leaving Basil still trapped beneath the stone column.

Slowly, shakingly, the Byzantine Empire set his head down on the rubble, and a single tear rolled down his cheek. He’d been a fool Folkert’s Curse had come true. His family had betrayed him.


	66. The Knight Who Knew Too Much

The nations watched as the scene shimmered away from the burning bastions of Constantinople, looking at Basil. The Byzantine Empire remained deathly silent, still standing apart from the rest of the Europeans and instead between Erak and Sadik. Ludwig still slept fitfully on the ground, tossing and turning, but through his mutterings, Gilbert could have sworn he heard the word “intruder”. Feliciano was refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. 

Then the scene reilluminated on Gabriel Desanges, the Personification of the Knights Templar, while the young Order worked diligently at paperwork in his headquarters near Paris. The nations watched as Gabriel sighed, putting down his quill. He’d lost so many good men over the decades. First, he’d lost Jerusalem and his headquarters at Temple Mount, then he’d withdrawn to Acre and almost been wiped out protecting civilians. Now, he wasn’t even anywhere near the Holy Land anymore, instead working out finances for half the nobles in France. Gabriel snorted. The Knights Templar: Slayers of Infidels to Financial Consultants. Such a progression.

Worse still, he owed the King of France money, and Francis Bonnefoy was none too happy with him. At the times he’d been able to escape to Avignon to meet with the pope, Clement V had proposed merging his order with the Knights Hospitaller. Gabriel shuddered at the thought. As much as he liked Denzel, he needed to be his own order, unreliant on anyone else. Now if only he could figure out these damned taxes-

The door to Gabriel’s study received a few short knocks, then a Templar soldier let himself inside. “Master Desanges,” the Templar said, “There is troubling news from the Crusade.”

Gabriel cocked an eyebrow. “What sort of troubling?” he asked inquiringly, beginning to stand up.

The Templar took a breath, then said, “The Crusading Army have sacked Constantinople and turned home. Reports say several high-ranking Byzantine officials were injured in the fighting, as well as many civilians.”

Gabriel knocked over his inkwell. “Oh God,” he whispered, “My vision. Gather the Masters, quickly! And get me Grand Master de Molay, now!”

The Templar looked startled, but knew better than to disobey orders. He scampered off through the temple, gathering high-ranking Templars for Gabriel. Meanwhile, the personification looked down at the ink slowly dripping from his desk and pooling onto the floor. How much it looked like blood in the meager candlelight. “Armageddon,” Gabriel whispered.

The scene shifted, and now it showed Gabriel sitting at a large table with high-ranking Templars, the old men solemnly listening to him. “I have seen it in the Temple of Solomon,” Gabriel was saying, “The future. If Byzantium falls, if Holy Rome is put into that position of stress, the world will begin to travel down a dark path. I speak of global wars, that will bring universal death and destruction hitherto unfathomable by man.”

The old Templar masters regarded him with something like pity. “Poor boy,” one began, “We do not mean to discredit you or your service to the Order, but think rationally for a moment. Byzantium is already crumbling. A new, powerful empire must rise to take its place, and Holy Rome seems to be just the nation for the job. It is powerful, expansive, and has been endorsed by the papacy. With all these omens of heavenly favor, who are we to judge what the future may hold?”

Gabriel slammed his fist down on the table, shouting, “THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE IS FRAGILE! The moment there is too much strain, it will shatter like glass, into tiny, irreconcilable fragments. And from that catalyst a new empire will rise, one more powerful and terrifying than any other on God’s Earth. And the things he builds will lead to wanton destruction! Please, you  _ must  _ believe me! I have seen it!”

The Templars shifted uncomfortably, and Gabriel’s face fell. “You don’t believe me,” he realized, and Grand Master de Molay tried to speak, but Gabriel was already leaving, trying not to let the tears fall. They were only his most trusted advisors, commanders, and friends. What did they know? He knew what was about to happen, and he knew he must stop it… but  _ how? _

Gabriel locked himself in his study, muttering to himself. “Constantinople falls,” he muttered, “Ottomans rise, Basil dies, Denzel flees, Ludwig answers the call, Napoleon, Gilbert’s sin… Armageddon.” Gabriel sat down heavily in a chair, whispering, “Armageddon…” A tear rolled down the Templar’s cheek, and slowly he began donning his armor and his sword. He knew what he must do to stop this dark path, but he didn’t want to have to do it.

The scene shimmered, and the nations watched as Gabriel walked through the darkened streets of medieval Berlin. His armor and uniform were mudstained from days of travel, and he looked worn to the bone. Still, he stole through a back alley and climbed as silently as he could through a stone window. Inside was a simple room, with a single bed and a desk with a burnt out candle. A familiar shock of white hair rested on the pillow, and Gabriel stood over the sleeping form of Gilbert Beilschmidt.

Gabriel raised his sword. This was the same boy who used to raid monastery kitchens with him. The same man who’d fought by his side in the Holy Land. One of his closest friends and allies. But then Gabriel remembered what he had seen from Elijah’s Cup. That room, those people, those  _ nations _ , the blood, the fire, the  _ voice _ … that horrifying, unholy  _ voice _ . Gilbert’s deal. Gilbert’s sin.  _ “I will put you back together. _ ” The future must be changed. To do that, Gilbert must never be allowed to become Prussia. He needed to kill the Teutonic Knights. He needed to kill Gilbert.

Gabriel steeled his nerves, raising his sword a little higher, ready to strike-- “Intruder!” someone bellowed, and Gabriel turned to see Ludwig, dressed in nightclothes with sword in hand, and instantly Gilbert awoke, hand reaching for his zweihander before his eyes were even open. 

Cursing, Gabriel turned and fled out the window, stealing away into the night. Ludwig chased him, but Gabriel proved to be much faster, fleeing Berlin and stealing a horse back to Paris. The scene shimmered, and the nations watched as Gabriel stumbled into the square in front of Notre Dame, exhausted and delusional. He pulled off his helmet, muttering, “Armageddon, Armageddon, Armageddon,” he stumbled to his knees, sweat dripping from his brow.

At that moment, Francis walked into the square, noticing Gabriel’s shivering form in dawn’s early light. “ _ Mon Dieu! _ ” he exclaimed, “Gabriel, is that you!?” Francis ran to the Templar’s side, who promptly threw up on the cobblestones.

“Armageddon!” Gabriel choked out in a tortured sob, “Armageddon!”

“Gabriel?” Francis asked, “ _ Mere Maria _ , what happened to you?”

Gabriel suddenly grabbed Francis by the collar, whispering, “D-demons! Deal with demons!” The Templar was frothing at the mouth now, making Francis recoil in disgust. “Unholy! Unholy!” Gabriel shivered, rocking back and forth in a ball, “Armageddon!”

“Gabriel! Speak sense, man!” Francis implored the Templar, but it was no use. Gabriel’s mind seemed to be addled by stress, illness, fever, madness, or all four. With nothing else he could do, Francis called for guards, who hauled Gabriel away to a madhouse.

The scene shimmered once more, and now the nations gasped at what they saw, Alfred in particular recoiling in horror. Stakes stood up from the fertile ground, and on each one a battered and bloodied Templar knight. Even Grand Master de Molay wasn’t spared, bound to the stake with tightly wound rope. 

They watched as the final stake was put up, gasping as they saw Gabriel Desanges bound to it, with blood covering his skin, his head hanging low and limp. Francis stood in front of them, then began reading charges. “Knights Templar!” Francis began, “You have been convicted of heresy! Your members have admitted to deals with demons-”

“N’mm,” Gabriel slurred softly.

“-conspiring to kill Christian kings in Byzantium-”

“N’me,” Gabriel tried again.

“-and unholy practices!” Francis finished.

“Not me!” Gabriel cried softly.

Francis ignored him, saying, “We have found demonic artefacts in your monasteries and temples, severed heads-”

“That is the skull of St John the Baptist!” de Molay protested, “It is sacred, not demonic!”

“-upturned crosses, secretive initiations that have been rumored to have members urinate on the face of Christ!” Francis continued, growing more and more red in the face.

“Not me!” Gabriel protested again.

“Knights Templar, for your crimes, by the holy power invested in His Majesty King of France, you are all hereby sentenced to  _ death _ ,” Francis said with finality, rolling up his scroll, “To be burned at the stake until dead.” Francis gave the signal to light the pyres, and French executioners bearing lit torches moved forward.

Gabriel’s head snapped up, and he looked Francis dead in the eye. “Francis, listen to me!” he cried, “You cannot ignore me! I’m telling the truth! Death, fire, destruction, ruin to the Christian World! If you do not want this world to burn, you must kill him! Kill the German!  _ Kill him! _ ” 

Francis looked up at the pleading Templar with something like pity. “You have cavorted with Satan, Gabriel, and he has driven you mad,” he concluded finally, “The Christian World is doing just fine. You have committed heresy, and now you, and your entire, poisonous Order will burn.”

“NOT ME!” Gabriel protested, but the flames began to roar higher. Templars screamed and cried out as fire began to consume them.

“NOT ME! NOT ME!” Gabriel cried, tears rolling down his face as his uniform caught fire, “ARMAGEDDON! ARMAGEDDON!! THIS IS THE WAY THE WORLD ENDS!  **_ARMAGEDDON!!_ ** ”

Francis watched solemnly as the young Templar Order went up in smoke, screaming and crying for someone, anyone to  _ listen to him _ . Such a shame, really, how warped his mind had become. The scene went dark as the nations heard Gabriel’s final scream, “ **_I AM INNOCENT!_ ** ”

But alas, it was no use. The Templar Order was no more.

In the present, Francis fell to his knees. “ _ Mon Dieu, _ ” he whispered, “He was telling the truth. I burned an innocent man at the stake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the tragedy of the Knights Templar. actual history time, the Templars were accused of heresy by the French, who probably tortured confessions out of them because they were a nuisance to the king at the time. they were all burned at the stake and wiped out in a purge.
> 
> I decided to tie this in to Gabriel's vision from Elijah's Cup, which you may interpret as you will in the comments!


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